


Good Omens Celebration

by Zeckarin



Series: And they were roomates... (but there were two beds) [35]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempt at mugging, Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Crowley isn't impressed, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Good Omens Celebration 2020, Guardian Angel Aziraphale (Good Omens), Happy Ending, Humor, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley, Queerplatonic Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Robbery, Summoning, Summoning Circles, crowley is a drama queen, crowley's rats army, do not touch the books, drinking in the bookshop, may's prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:14:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 27,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23955166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zeckarin/pseuds/Zeckarin
Summary: These are the GO celebration ficlets!!It's short stories of the boys. I hope you will enjoy!
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley & Adam Young (Good Omens), Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: And they were roomates... (but there were two beds) [35]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1523585
Comments: 321
Kudos: 237
Collections: Good Omens Celebration





	1. In The Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a hold-up at the bookshop!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so excited to celebrate GO 30th anniversary!!  
> I will do my best to post twice a week, and I intend to write every prompt.  
> I hope you'll enjoy!

30 years ago...

In the beginning, Young Ted had used a knife. But knives were messy and not always threatening enough. He’d learned one day that a gun was way more scary.

Not that he intended to _use_ it, of course. But shop owners didn’t argue when facing a gun. He’d had to run away four times when the knife wasn’t enough, and almost got caught the last time.

“Stab fright,” Tim had said. “You’re scared of using it, that’s why you chickened out. With a gun, it’s easier. You just pull the trigger. Don’t have to come up close. You’ll see.”

Young Ted had bought the gun, and thrown the bullets in a dumpster later that night. Of course he couldn’t _say_ to Tim and the gang that he didn’t intend to _use_ it. He knew he was lacking backbone. Not even able to hurt someone. The only burglar good enough to make a fortune and retire without using violence or getting caught was John freakin’ Mannering, and he was a book character!

That was another thing that made Tim and his boys look at him in contempt. Young Ted liked to read.

So many failings…

But the gun, even not loaded, worked like crazy. He had grabbed a good haul at the paper shop just an hour ago, and was feeling like a giant.

That’s when he saw the bookshop.

It was a strange shop, but oddly mesmerizing. Young Ted walked to it like in a trance. The vision of old books scattered all over the place reignited something that had never totally died inside of him, reminding him of his grand-mother’s collection, and all his solitary nights when he spent holidays at her home, sharing adventures with brave hobbits, moustachioed detectives, nine-lived enchanters and big mouthed orphan girls.

He had taken the books when his grandma died. Still got them. Almost fifty, neatly arranged on a shaky shelf near his bed. But the sight of all of these ones, books he hadn’t read, was impossible to resist.

He had money, yes, but money couldn’t be used on bloody books. Tim wouldn’t be happy at all.

But he also had a gun and a mask, right? And a bookshop owner was certainly not the kind to try to fight.

  
  


“I am dreadfully sorry, but we’re closed!” yelled a polite voice from the back of the shop as the doorbell rang.

Young Ted fought a feeling of unease. He should go, that’s what the voice implied. Going was the courteous thing to do.

_Stop being fucking stupid, Ted! You’re not supposed to act polite!_

“I need to talk with the manager!” he called, his voice slightly muffled by the mask.

“Didn’t you hear the man? Bookshop’s closed, come back later,” called a voice that was way less civil than the first. Young Ted startled and looked at the stairway on his left. Someone was coming. He raised his arm firmly, gun pointed to the stairs.

The man that came down was not what he expected of a book seller. First, he was dressed like an ageing rock star. All in black, sunglasses indoor… the three cups of tea he was holding carefully were strangely unsettling.

Sunglasses tilted his head and grinned hugely, leaning against a shelf without an ounce of fear.

“Angel! There’s someone here to see you!” he called.

Young Ted blinked. Something was awfully off, he could sense it. This kind of man could act stupid. He could not predict his reaction, and that was not good in Ted’s line of work.

Footsteps echoed and another man appeared, this time from another room at the back of the shop. He was wearing an outdated beige costume, had white hair, and was way closer to Young Ted’s target of predilection. This one wouldn’t cause trouble. He wouldn’t be stupid enough to risk his life for books. Now that he saw him, he could understand the nickname.

“Crowley, I cannot talk to a customer! We are closed! Plus, it would be awfully discourteous to our guest!”

He stopped short as he took in the scene in front of him. Then he clucked his tongue.

“Oh, bother… well, my dear, I think you should keep Mr. Fitzpatrick company. I will join you two in a jiffy.”

The lanky ex rock star slithered his way to the back room, his grin still in place.

“And do NOT drink my share!” called Angel. A chuckle answered him.

With a pout, the shopkeeper looked at Young Ted. “Now, my dear sir, I will have to ask you to go home. We have a visitor and it would be _very_ ill-mannered of me to abandon him for a mere hold up.”

Young Ted gaped. Then straightened up, gathering his courage.

“Give me the books!” he ordered in a low tone, “and nobody will get hurt. Put some of them in a bag and… just give it to me!”

The Angel gasped in outrage. “My _books_? Certainly not! Don’t you want the cash-box like any respectable burglar?”

Young Ted spluttered, which, strangely, elicited a fond smile from the bookshop’s owner.

“Why do you want my books anyway? You wouldn’t know who to sell them to! They are quite priceless, and I do not want to assume, of course, but I highly doubt you know any receiver of stolen first editions...”

Young Ted couldn’t for the life of him explain why he answered. “I don’t want to sell them, I want to _read_ them!”

The shopkeeper's eyes widened, then he beamed, and kind of wriggled with delight.

“Oh, but this is _wonderful_ to hear! The love of reading is not something to be ashamed of! Now, my dear, put that nasty thing away and come discuss with us. I will fix you a nice cup of tea.”

The Angel patted his shoulder (when did he come so close?) and took the gun from his hand. Young Ted let him.

How he ended up in the backroom with the bookshop owner (M. Fell), his lanky, red haired friend (M. Crowley) and the neighbourhood’s middle-aged butcher (M. Fitzpatrick), drinking tea, then whiskey for two solid hours, he had no idea.

All he knew was that he gave M. Fell his loot of the day (“I will make sure it goes back to its rightful owner, my dear”) and had left with the name and address of a publisher in want of an assistant (“She is an old friend. I am sure she will adore you!”). He had tried to explain that he couldn’t, that Tim wouldn’t let him get out like this, but M. Crowley had waved the objections away (“Don’t worry about them. They won’t try to stop you”).

Strangely, he had believed them.

 _And, well_ , thought Ted thirty years later as he pushed the bookshop’s door with a box of baked goods, like every first Sunday of the month, _they were right_.


	2. Contrast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An angel crosses the street without a look at the traffic. A demon follows him and waves a thank you at the car that let them pass.  
> Isn't that strange?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene (Episode 1, 29 minutes 35 seconds from the beginning) fascinates me.  
> Why would Crowley wave a thank you? Aziraphale I could understand: that angel is sometimes absent-minded.  
> But why would a DEMON thank someone for letting them cross? Shouldn't he ignore the driver just like Aziraphale did, fuel his anger?  
> That's when I started imagining something. What if it wasn't what we think at all?  
> What if Aziraphale crossed on purpose, and forcing the car to stop was a Good Deed?  
> What if Crowley's wave had another meaning, the opposite of thank you?

Eleven years before Armageddon

“I have several very nice bottles of Châteauneuf-du-Pape in the back. I picked up a dozen cases in 1921 and there’s still some left. For special occasions,” declared Aziraphale with a contented smile.

Crowley, tip of his fingers in his pockets, took a moment to think. It wasn’t the usual temptation he was aiming for here, it was the real deal. It had been several hundred years since he had needed more than a raised eyebrow or a smirk to have Aziraphale agree to lend a hand in one of his demonic deeds. But what he was asking today couldn’t be seen as anything other than asking the angel to betray Heaven for real.

He didn’t like it. Didn’t like it one bit. But desperate times called for desperate measures, and the end of the fucking world was, in Crowley’s mind, the more desperate of all the situations he could imagine. (Or so he thought at the moment. Eleven years later, in a burning bookshop, he would understand how wrong he had been).

How to convince the angel to help him save the freaking _world_? Honestly, Crowley hadn’t expected such stubborn resolve. Hadn’t even expected a “no”. Aziraphale loved Humanity. Gave his sword, lied to God, chose to stay and protect them when given the choice to come back to Heaven and forsake his duty as a Principality. All in the same bloody day, for Satan’s sake!

So why on earth was he getting cold feet _now_? Why didn’t he just say “Oh, Crowley, you wily serpent, you know I _couldn’t_ do such a thing!” with that familiar twinkle in his eyes that always promised “Come on, ask again, give me just some excuse, even a bad one. Of course I’ll help.”

Maybe that’s what he was waiting for? More excuses? He could find some. He could find heaps of excuses. He hadn’t tried to really tempt the angel for a long time, but it wasn’t like he lacked training, what with all these humans and their vices and desires. He knew Aziraphale so well that tempting him should be as easy as stealing candy from a baby.

“Not very big on wine in Heaven, are they, though?” he remarked casually, observing his friend’s face. “Not going to get any more nice Châteauneuf-du-Pape in Heaven. Or single malt scotch. Or little…” he stopped as his friend turned to watch the road with a slight frown. Something evil was coming their way, he realised, smirking internally as he spotted the grey car approaching, before getting back to the conversation at hand, “little froufrou cocktails with umbrellas.”

The angel crossed the street right in front of the car, making it lose a precious second, and Crowley followed with a casual wave at the driver.

Aziraphale sighed. “Crowley, I’ve told you, I’m not helping you. I’m not interested. This is purely social. I am an angel, you are a demon, we’re hereditary enemies. Get thee behind me, foul fiend!”

It would have been funny, hadn’t the situation been so dire, thought the demon as his friend invited him inside the bookshop with a polite bow and a friendly smile. But Aziraphale wasn’t using his usual speech like he always did. This time there wasn’t that twinkle. Oh, the last words didn’t have the slightest weight, and were offered without any heat. But the angel wasn’t lying when he said he wouldn’t help. Crowley felt ice settle along his spine.

_You can’t do this to me, Aziraphale. Come on, you can’t want this! You have to help me, I can’t do it without you!_

  
  


* * *

  
  


Gerald hit the brake and cursed under his breath. Fucking pedestrian, crossing the street right in front of him! _Go to Hell, you bastard!_ He thought, glaring at the man’s back. A professor, judging by his stupid clothes. The fucker didn’t even look in Gerald’s direction! Did he want to get run over?

The lanky, red-haired man that followed him turned to Gerald to address him a strange little wave. It should have been a “Thank you” wave. Or a “Excuse my friend, thank you for letting us pass” one. But it wasn’t. The man’s movement, as fast as it had been, was clearly a “See you soon, pal!”. The sort of signal you sent a close friend or a colleague to convey that you intended to have a drink with them later.

And Gerald was _certain_ he had never met the guy.

Never mind the two creeps. He had to hurry. With that precious second lost, the traffic light had turned to red right as he arrived to its level.

He only had twenty minutes before the end of his lunch break. Everything would be lost if he couldn’t make it in time. With a grimace, he ran the stop-light.

  
  


* * *

  
  


The thing was, thought Aziraphale with a sigh, taking a sip of his wine, that Crowley and himself had a lot in common. They both loved humans, and were trying to enjoy all the world had to offer while vaguely doing their jobs. But the greatest difference between them could be expressed in one word: Faith. One of them had it, unconditionally. The other… was feeling quite the opposite. And the angel had no way to discuss it with his friend. He knew the outcome. This particular subject was taboo between them, as was that of Aziraphale’s hypothetical Falling*.

Aziraphale couldn’t talk about Faith. Couldn’t say “I will not help you, my dear, because I know there is no need to help. She will not let it happen, She loves them too much. I know She will stop it all.”

He couldn’t say it. Not to Crowley. It would be both useless and cruel. Crowley would yell or storm out, calling him stupid, and they would both say things they would later regret. Ineffable was the only word the angel would use to speak of God’s will. That one, Crowley could accept.

So he said nothing, even as his answers were making his friend more and more uncomfortable, something Aziraphale hated, particularly when he was the reason behind that distress.

_Oh, for the love of God, Crowley, stop talking about it, please. Of course I wouldn’t let them die! How can you think for a second that I would!_

Well… he was saying no, after all. And Crowley couldn’t understand why. Finding good reasons to refuse was getting more and more difficult.

“Even if I wanted to help, I couldn’t,” he provided, a little wary It was his last argument. He had no idea what to oppose next. “I can’t interfere with the Divine Plan.”

_Specially if said Plan is to save them all._

And it was. He _knew_ it was. He probably was the only angel in the Universe to think it, but he knew She never intended for Armageddon to take place. It was ineffable. She loved Humanity too much to let them down.

That’s when Crowley said the Thing that would make Aziraphale’s resolve crumble like a sandcastle under a tsunami.

“You can’t be certain that thwarting me isn’t part of the Divine Plan too.”

_**Oh, fuck! He’s right!** _

It was Crowley’s last argument, that much was obvious. But it was an excellent one, even if the demon himself didn’t believe it at all and was only grasping at straws.

What if _they_ were God’s way of stopping the war and save Humanity? What if Her Plan was also Crowley’s?

Aziraphale stopped objecting, and thought furiously while the demon, sensing an opening, elaborated on his plan. It was a good plan. It was an excellent one, even. Exactly the sort She would devise Herself. They were both Her tools in preventing that awful war! (And he would _never_ tell Crowley that!).

 _Oh, you clever, clever boy_ , he thought fondly, shaking hands with his friend. _What w_ _ould I have_ _become without your brilliant mind?_

He was so happy, and so full of optimism, that he even let the little pun at him _being damned_ pass.

He had been the one to say it after all. Plus, it was a good one.

  
  


*Crowley had learnt that one the hard way, in 531. Never joke about Aziraphale’s love of food being a sin. Never chuckle and suggest that it could drag him down. It had been a joke, and nothing else of course. Crowley always had been convinced that his friend was way too compassionate to end in Hell, but this had been his one and only smiting at the hand of his friend, and even if, of course, it wasn’t meant to actually discorporate him, it had hurt for a long time. Plus, Aziraphale had refused to talk to him for three years. Until he apologised. Demons don’t apologise, but demons aren’t supposed to befriend angels either.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Gerald sat at the interrogation table, head in his hands, barely listening to his lawyer’s words. He was screwed. Positively and definitely screwed.

The lime, she shovel, the tarp and the carpet in this trunk had been his doom. It was such a good plan. Lunch break at work was the perfect alibi, and he would have got rid of his wife’s clothes later at night, with the body, and declared her missing the following day.

Now Jenny was alive, would end with all his money, and would probably have a good laugh about it all at that.

All that for a freaking stop-light.

 _I hope that fucking professor will go to Hell_ , thought Gerald furiously.*

*He would. But maybe not exactly as Gerald had hoped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this story! Tomorrow will have us travel in time, way before Armageddon!!


	3. Unexpected

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, you think you're in for another boring business meeting, and something completely unexpected happens.  
> Let's say that since THAT particular day, Crowley started to hate surprises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised I would write that story, and I did!!  
> I have a lot of tags to add today, and angst is finally here!!

Crowley had trouble with Satanists. Not that he disapproved, of course, but the idea of humans willing to sell their soul for power was unsettling. Why? Humans weren’t stupid, even if some of their action made it sometimes difficult to remember they had a functional brain. They could perfectly understand the difference between eighty more years (at most) of fulfilled life and… an eternity of suffering. No? Eternity was forever, for Satan’s sake! How could anyone be so bloody stupid?

Anyway, it was good for business, and they loved the idea of worshippers, Below, so…

Well, so here he was. Again. Meeting with bloody Satanists for a “ritual”.

Crowley was already bored. After a few hundreds of years, you were bound to have seen it all…

Silver knives, pentagrams, white dresses (why the fucking Heaven _white_? He had no idea. But it almost always was. Or red).

Then blood, or a little sacrifice to make things even more gross. Mostly chickens. Twice, it had been human girls, but Crowley had put his foot down, declared the girl wasn’t “pure enough” to be offered to the Dark Lord (Purity. Ha! Like humans had an expiration date!) and declared the offering of a good bottle of red wine would replace blood very nicely. Preferably unopened.

After the “sacrifice” came chants, stupid promises, more chants, burning of very potent herbs (most of the time, potent enough that no one could notice that their guest of honour was stealing the wine) and a bloody ridiculous banquet to end it all.

Crowley was annoyed. He had been invited to a Marquess’ party that night, and that would have been so much more fun…

But work first, right?

He sighed, waiting through the first of a long series of incantations. This was going to be a freaking wasted night. And there wasn’t even wine.

Which was strange. No sacrifice? That was a first. Well, good thing, that. Shame about the wine, of course, but he could also steal something on his way out, after all…

Already bored, Crowley waited while the circle of white robes intoned another sentence. A word had him frowning. Was that… Enochian?

Strange. Some humans knew about Enochian, but why use Heaven’s language in a satanist ceremony?

The demon suddenly straightened with the nagging feeling that he had walked into a trap. He looked around. No trap, no weapon ready to strike. He didn’t feel threatened, and still…

Still, there was something unnerving in that room. Fear was slowly mounting in him. Squinting his eyes, he scanned the people, the walls, the ceiling, the floor.

Floor. Pentagram in a circle. Demonic writing around the…

Wait. That wasn’t only demonic. There was some Enochian here too. Not sentences, only words, scattered amongst the demonic runes.

 _Trap. Bow._ _Sacrifice_ _._

And a name.

HOLY FUCK! Thought Crowley, his claws and fangs growing without a thought.

 _Too late_ , he realised with a feeling that resembled very much terror. _Too bloody late_. The incantation had ended while he was reading these stupid words.

A flash of blinding divine light illuminated the room, and every human took a step back, raising their hands in protection. The sound of a body dropping on the floorboard broke the silence.

Crowley’s sunglasses had been enough of a barrier, and contrary to the humans, he could see. For a second, there was no movement coming from the circle of chalk. Only the limp, lifeless form in the middle of it, and the demon felt his stomach turn to ice. Oh he knew that corporation. He’d know it anywhere, even without those tanned clothes and that distinctive tartan scarf.

Then one of the humans started to speak, the demonic litany to Bend a Will, and the trapped body jerked violently.

A blood-curdling scream shook the whole room, resonating on the mortal as well as the ethereal plan, and Crowley bent double under the overwhelming pain accompanying it. It was terrifying, hearing that voice speak such an agony.

“STOP THAT!” he yelled with all the powers of Hell underlining his command, and the human froze mid-sentence.

The demon realised he’d stopped time without thinking about it. The cry died down, replaced with ragged breaths that were half sobs. Crowley was very much feeling like crying himself.

“Aziraphale,” he croaked softly, stumbling to the invocation circle. “Aziraphale!”

The angel had curled on himself on the floor, but stopped breathing as he heard his name. A strangled sound escaped him, and it sounded like a question.

“Yeah, that’s me. T’s all right, angel. I’ll… I’ll get you out of here, okay? Don’t worry, it won’t take a minute.”

He started examining the writings around the circle, but couldn’t focus on it, the scream replaying again and again in his mind.

The angel slowly unfolded and sat down, clasping his hands on his lap, and Crowley knew it was to hide their trembling.

“Erase the invoking rune first, then the channelling one, then my name.” Aziraphale’s voice was slow and collected. Crowley could tell that all of his friend’s remaining energy was used to keep it steady. He nodded, and erased the runes and the angelic name.

“Binding rune. Trapping word,” continued the angel, and Crowley followed his instruction, carefully avoiding to look up. Finally, the circle broke, and Aziraphale sagged in relief.

“Better?” asked the demon, glancing sideways at his friend’s face.

He pretended not to see it was tear-stained.

“Perfectly tickety-boo, dear boy. Would you… that is, could you help me get up?”

“Course, Aziraphale. Anything. Just ask.”

Getting the angel on his feet took a long minute. Finally, the two immortal entities stood stiffly in the middle of the room, the angel leaning against his friend for support.

“Want to get back to your bookshop? I could… I could transport us there.”

Aziraphale’s face showed relief for a brief moment, then he looked around, and closed his eyes.

“Better not. These people… they can contact Hell, isn’t it? You cannot just disappear with the angel they intended to, ah… offer you, I imagine.”

“I think you were today’s sacrifice. I’m sorry, angel, I didn’t know, and when I realised it was too late...”

Aziraphale patted his shoulder awkwardly. “Do not fret, my dear. I feel much better now. I will just… pop back to the bookshop, and rest a little. I will be fine in a jiffy.”

“The Heaven you will! I’m not leaving you alone in that state!” argued Crowley.

“You have to. You cannot afford for these humans to doubt you. You could, I don’t know… pretend you destroyed me and carry on?”

Crowley snapped his fingers, and the humans disappeared. “I’d rather pretend that their plan backfired and they have been smote by the angel they tried to summon.”

“Where did you send them?” asked the angel disapprovingly.

“Don’t know, don’t care. Somewhere unpleasant I hope. Come on, let me bring you home.”

Aziraphale bit his lip, frowning in anguish. Crowley knew what was about to happen. The angel couldn’t outright accept help from a demon. And he certainly shouldn’t offer it either.

“You know,” he said slowly, gathering his best tempting voice, “I had a stroke of bad luck lately, and no one to listen to me complain about my last failed temptation… I could use someone lending an ear."

That got him a weak smile. He counted it as a victory. Aziraphale didn’t even take the time to ponder. He had to be exhausted not to fight at all, thought the demon with a pang of worry.

“I imagine it would be the compassionate thing to do. I don’t really have a choice...”

“No, you don’t. It is your angelic duty after all. Listening to grievances, soothing disappointment, all that stuff, that’s your turf,” approved Crowley, nodding seriously.

“Well if I have to listen to your whining, I will probably need more than one bottle. Why don’t you… transport us to the shop? I have a crate of white you will like, I think.”

Crowley snapped his fingers again, and they were both in the bookshop. He helped the angel sit on his usual armchair and hovered over him with concern.

Summoning wasn’t easy. It required the right runes, the right candles, the precise invocation. All these years since medieval times, Crowley had tried (with the angel’s help) to avoid being summoned at all costs, and now he’d learned he wasn’t the only possible target. This was frightening. This couldn’t happen ever again! His brain was overloaded with questions, and as usual, they all got out without the slightest filter.

“How do you feel? Is there something I can do? How on Earth did they _do_ that? What did you feel exactly when it happened? Did you know you could be summoned?”

Aziraphale tightened his lips and frowned a little. “I really am _fine_ , dear boy, I promise you. This adventure was… uncomfortable, but I will be right as rain very soon. Now be a lamb and fetch us something to drink, will you? I’d rather not talk about it right now...”

“Yes. Yes, of course, I… I’ll be back in a minute,” answered Crowley, taking a step back. _Stupid demon, asking hurtful questions! Overbearing ass!_ He chided himself internally, walking away.

“Crowley?” called Aziraphale after him. He spin on himself in a blur.

“Yes?”

The angel smiled fondly, and Crowley felt his stomach unclench for the first time in the last half hour.

“You can stay after our nightcap and sleep on the couch, if you are feeling tired.”

They both knew Crowley wasn't going anywhere soon, but the offer was part of their millenia-long game. He didn’t intend to sleep at all, not as long as his friend seemed to need him, but he didn’t answer that.

“Thanks, angel. I’m exhausted.”

“Good. And I promise you we will talk about… about all this tomorrow.”

The demon sent him a relieved smile. “That would be great. Cause I don’t want that to happen ever again, Aziraphale.”

“You know, my dear,” answered the angel thoughtfully, “I believe we are thinking the same.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for hurting Aziraphale again... I will try to go easy on him tomorrow!


	4. Force

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Star Wars day.  
> Crowley thinks that it's high time for the angel to discover one of his favourite trilogy.  
> He soon regrets it, of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!!  
> I still intend to write every prompt! Here's a little ficlet, I hope you'll like it.

“Oh, dear...” murmured Aziraphale, looking blankly at the screen. He was dreadfully aware of the demon’s stare. Crowley had been eyeing him for the entirety of the movie. _Movies_ , corrected the angel inwardly. _Three_ movies. An entire afternoon spent in front of that annoying contraption his friend loved so much.

“So..?” asked the demon, his patience finally snapping. “What do you think?”

Aziraphale scrunched up his nose, trying to think of something to say, anything, that could be considered as both true and enthusiastic.

Crowley’s mouth twitched. He was probably the only being in the whole universe able to frown with his mouth, in the angel’s opinion.

“You don’t like it,” declared the demon breezily, like it didn’t matter at all to him. Aziraphale wasn’t fooled for one second.

“I didn’t say that. It was… entertaining. And that Solo fellow was truly an interesting character. It is just...”

“What? Come on, spit it out! I won’t rant at you for criticizing,” ranted Crowley.

“Well… isn’t it awfully Manichean? The light side, the dark side… the anger and fear leading to evil… this is a little cliché, my dear.”

Crowley spluttered. “You’re missing the bloody point! T’s not about good and evil! Well... maybe a little, but whatever… It’s about fighting for your beliefs! And never despairing, even when everything seems lost!”

“Oh, come on, Crowley! Defeating the Empire wasn’t _that_ difficult!”

“What are you talking about?” yelled the demon, frustrated by his friend’s lack of wisdom. “It’s the fucking Empire, Aziraphale! They’re the most powerful army in the universe!”

“They are absolutely stupid, dear! Someone stole the plan to their giant weapon and they didn’t even stop one second to wonder what the Rebels could do with it! Either they know about their weakness, and then leaving it unprotected is stupid, or they don’t know they have one, and they should delegate a team to study the stolen information and imagine where the rebellion will strike! that’s what you do when the enemy _steals the plans to your secret base!_ You wonder where they will attack you! How they intend to use it!”

They were both standing up, almost nose to nose, yelling in anger, the television forgotten. Crowley flapped his arms in exasperation.

“Why are you so bloody infuriating? You don’t have to analyse everything, Aziraphale! Why don’t you just _enjoy_ the bloody movie for once, instead of trying to _ruin_ it?”

Aziraphale always had a very expressive face, and the look of hurt was plain as day.

“I didn’t _want_ to ruin it for you! You _asked_ me to tell you what I thought about it!”

“Yes, but… but it doesn’t mean you have to point out _every_ hole in the scenario! I _love_ those movies, I want to be able to watch them without thinking it’s unfair that Chewbacca doesn’t get a medal!”

The angel blinked, then gasped in realisation. “Oh, my… you’re right! They _didn’t_ give him a medal! Is the rebellion _specist_?”

Crowley took a huge breath and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Okay. Let’s go out. Eat somewhere. I need a drink,” he growled.

“But, my dear, you told me you wanted me to watch more of it.”

There was no way Crowley would be able to stand nine more hours of long suffering sighs, eye rolls and clicks of the tongue.

His friend would have a lot to say about a society evolved enough to travel through space but unable to detect a twin pregnancy and explaining a death in childbirth by “losing the will to live”.

“No. No need, angel! The original trilogy is enough to understand the joke. Star wars day is today… because..?”

He waited, eyebrow raised, watching his friend over the rim of his sunglasses. The angel’s face lightened with understanding.

“Oh… oh! _May the fourth_! Well that is very funny, dear. Awfully funny!” exclaimed Aziraphale with obvious false enthusiasm.

Crowley sighed.

Well… his friend did watch the entire trilogy without complaining out loud. That was probably the best he could ask for.

“All right, angel. How about Moroccan?”

Aziraphale wriggled excitedly. “What an excellent suggestion! I haven’t had a tajine in _years_!”

“But we _won’t_ talk about Star wars in the restaurant!” warned the demon hurriedly.

“Very well, dear,” promised the angel in an insufferable calm voice. “I promise I won’t ask what keeps a lightsaber from extending into infinity like any other laser.”

“I swear to Someone, if you don’t shut up right now you’ll eat on your own!”

“Shutting up, my dear,” murmured Aziraphale in a honeyed voice, hiding his smile.

If Crowley shut the bookshop’s door a little louder than usual behind them, it was entirely the angel’s fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Star Wars. I really do!


	5. Miscommunication

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale being a friendly, sometimes oblivious angel, he may answer to flirting in the wrong way...

Fred had been working at the Treadmill for two weeks and was getting comfortable. The regulars were friendly, and the general ambiance was unusually calm for a pub in Soho. Most of the patrons were way over their thirties, and didn’t come here to drink shots and dance all night. If you liked good beer and cosy chairs, weren’t allergic to rainbow flags, and didn’t mind listening to a lot of Queen (the only music the owner allowed) then you were at the right place.

Fred looked up when the door opened, letting in both a gush of wind and a very attractive man. Middle aged, with outdated clothes, pale hair, and the most wonderful smile. Absolutely and definitely Fred’s type. He looked around, taking his coat off and hanging it on the coat-rack behind the door. He was the first to do that, and that made Fred smile.

“Good evening,” he greeted with a devastating smile, tucking his dishcloth over his shoulder and leaning over the counter to give Attractive Man all his attention and a thorough once over.

The other answered with such a sweet smile that Fred felt his knees give way. Damn, he _had_ to get that guy’s number. If, of course, he was single. Fred was kind of old-fashioned himself on that subject.

“Why, good evening to you, my dear,” answered Attractive Man sitting down on a stool, right in front of the bartender (and that was a good sign, thought Fred).

“What can I get you?” he asked. The man was obviously a regular, and regulars almost always knew what they wanted to drink.

“Oh… well, I have not quite decided… I am waiting for someone, but I imagine having a drink while waiting wouldn’t hurt. As long as it isn’t wine,” declared Cute But Probably Taken guy.

Fred grimaced inwardly. Well, waiting for someone could mean a lot of things…

“I can recommend you something to drink while you wait your boyfriend...” he declared breezily, busying himself with the clean glasses while observing his customer from the corner of his eye.

“Oh, Crowley isn’t my boyfriend,” answered Almost Certainly Single Cute Guy with an amused smile.

Okay. That was definitely flirting, decided Fred, feeling luckier by the minute. He leaned over and sent his best dazzling smile.

“In the mood for something sweet?” he crooned, winking.

The man wiggled. Actually wiggled. “Oh! That would be lovely, thank you!”

 _Well… maybe I won’t even go home with just a phone number tonight,_ thought Fred, his imagination running wild while he prepared his favourite cocktail. He wondered how to untie a bow tie. He had never worn one before, and had no idea how it worked. But he was willing to learn.

“On the house,” he purred, handing the glass to Let Me Take You To My Place, careful to brush his fingers in the process. Accidentally, of course.

He got another blinding smile.

_Definitely getting lucky tonight._

The door opened again, and Fred looked over. This one was attractive too, in a different, lanky, cool and dark sort of way. Not his type, but he still raised an impressed eyebrow at the swagger as the man aimed for the bar. There was something almost feral in the man’s movements. It was like watching a cat.

“Hey, Crowley!” called Peter, Fred’s boss, entering through the kitchen’s door. Sunglasses changed aim and got up to shake Peter’s hand.

Fred knew his boss enough, even after two weeks, to know he was about to talk for at least half an hour. There were only four other customers in the pub and their glasses were far from empty. He turned back to Cute Man, who was drinking his cocktail with such a rapturous expression that Fred felt his stomach melt.

Holy shit, he still had three hours before the end of his shift!

At the other end of the room, Crowley’s head snapped to the side to look at the bar. Startled by the sudden movement, Peter followed his look, saw the bewitched expression of his bartender and tensed, then touched Crowley’s shoulder in a calming gesture, and murmured “He’s a good kid. Let me take care of it.”

Fred looked up to see the man in sunglasses make a sort of pout, tilting his head to the side and lifting an eyebrow at Peter.

“Fred, can I talk to you one second?” asked Peter in a stilled voice. “In the kitchen.”

Sunglasses put his hands in his pockets and aimed for the bar, where he draped himself over one of the stools.

Blinking in surprise, Fred complied.

“Hiya, angel.”

Aziraphale lit up like a tiny sun. “Oh, Crowley, dear, you _have_ to try that cocktail! That young man is a genius!”

“Yeah…” drawled Crowley, thinking of the wave of lust he had felt only a minute ago. “He is a lot of things, I’m sure...”

“So, how did your temptation go? Do tell, my dear! I could hardly think of anything else all day. Was it very annoying to a lot of people?”

Crowley beamed, his annoyance forgotten. “Oh, angel… you have _no_ idea. It was _epic_! Didn’t expect such a result, to be honest. Never saw so many persons wearing Armani freaking out like that. I even made two CEOs cry! In public!”

Aziraphale clucked his tongue disapprovingly. “Oh, dear… what a dreadful situation. I really should have thwarted you...”

“Couldn’t. You had that book shipment to sort,” reminded the demon in the tone of voice one would use to say _you were tied_ _to_ _a chair and held at gunpoint._

The angel nodded in agreement. “I did. Well, I am glad to know you had fun too. Shall we celebrate, then? Let me offer you a drink, to a job well done? Even if it is a job I would never _approve_ _of_ , of course,” he added as a second thought.

Crowley smiled fondly. “You’re spoiling me, Aziraphale. T’wasn’t that big a deal.”

The angel shook his head firmly. “Pish posh, you spent a lot of time and energy on that caper, and you deserve a celebration. I insist!”

“Won’t fight you on that one. Let’s drink a lot then. Champagne?”

“Champagne? Are you trying to ruin me, Crowley?” asked the angel, eyes twinkling, looking for the bartender to order the best bottle they had.

The demon sighed, hiding his amusement. “Bankrupt, angel. Please, say bankrupt, for the love of Satan.”

“Isn’t it the same?”

This time the demon smirked. “Not for everyone.”

Aziraphale tutted, finally getting it. “Oh, get your mind out of the gutter, dearest. Not everyone thinks like you, you know.”

“I’m a demon, I’m literally _wired_ to hear naughty double entendre,” pointed Crowley with such a suggestive wagering of his eyebrows that even the angel would catch on it.

Crowley reached out and helped himself to a pint of beer. Aziraphale pouted but didn’t object. They almost never paid for a drink here anyway. Taking his first sip of _delicious_ IPA, the demon looked at the door where the new bartender and Peter had disappeared. He wasn’t concerned. Not really.

The Treadmill was a safe place for Aziraphale, who had graced (in more than one sense of the word) the pub with his presence for the last four decades. Everyone knew him here, and it was the only spot, apart from the bookshop and Crowley’s flat, where he was comfortable enough to unwind and be himself. Peter wouldn’t hire a jackass. Crowley was fairly certain that Fred fellow would understand that Aziraphale was off limits.

“Are you out of your mind, boy?” ranted Peter in hushed tones. “What the Hell do you think you’re doing? Hitting on Aziraphale? Do you have a fucking _death_ _wish_?”

Fred gaped. It was the first time he heard Peter swear, and it was much more scary than the dressing down. He had obviously crossed a line, even if he didn’t know which.

He raised his hands in a calming gesture. “Peter, I have _no_ _idea_ who this guy is! I thought he was single! I would never have otherwise!”

Peter’s face reddened even more. “Single? What does _single_ have to do with it? It’s _Aziraphale_! You don’t look at him that way! Aziraphale isn’t someone you think of like that!”

Fred blinked in confusion. He’d thought that his boss was a man of taste up till now. “Come on, man. I can’t be the only one! He’s hot as fuck! Did you see his _smile_?”

By the look on Peter’s face, it was like Fred had just commented on his fifteen year old little sister and not a grown up man. This was _very_ strange.

“Okay, okay. Don’t worry, I won’t bother him! I didn’t know he was off limits, that’s all.”

His boss deflated. “Yeah, I guess so. I didn’t tell you about these two.” Peter tapped his chin, thinking about the good way to describe his most peculiar regulars. “Aziraphale is… well he’s _nice_. Very, very nice. Always ready to help, and never expecting anything in return. Doesn’t mean he’s stupid. He’s probably the cleverest guy you’ll ever meet. And he can be terrifying if someone’s in danger. If there’s trouble someday while he and Crowley are here, don’t try to meddle. Just stand back and enjoy the show. But... he almost _never_ knows when someone is flirting with him. It’s just not his thing. And when he _does_ understand, it’s making him ill-at-ease. And we don’t want to see Aziraphale get uncomfortable here. So keep an eye open if a newcomer seems the handsy sort. _Specially_ if Crowley’s here. You _don’t_ want to see Crowley handle this before you, believe me. So no ogling, and free drinks, okay? Unless he or Crowley insists on paying.”

Fred nodded, grimacing inwardly. So Aziraphale _wasn’t_ flirting with him at all, but only being nice. He should have seen that. Unwanted attention was something he didn’t like to see and didn’t let happen in front of him. He was glad he’d been warned in time.

“So...” he asked, wanting to make things clear. “He’s ace, right?”

Peter rolled his eyes and sighed heavily.

“He’s _Aziraphale_ ,” he answered before heading back to the pub.


	6. Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angels can feel when they are needed. Sometimes, they can even feel it in advance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to write more about The Treadmill!!  
> And I have some other ideas. I'm not done with this pub!
> 
> Trigger warning for gunpoint situation.

This was a quiet afternoon at The Treadmill, like every Wednesday. After weeks of heated arguments, Peter, the manager, had given in to his bartender’s plea (if only to have peace again) and Fred was rearranging the bottles behind the counter into “something more fun”, as he said.

Peter rolled his eyed as his barman switched two bottles _again_. Well at least the boy was quiet now. With a victorious “aha!” he filled in another part of his crosswords.

The door opened, and both men turned to look at the first customer of the day. Peter’s face lightened up, and he waved a hand over his paper.

“Hello, Aziraphale.”

“Why, hello to you, Peter.” The angel looked around, then turned to Fred. “How are you, my dear? Calm day?”

The bartender offered a large smile to his favourite patron. Aziraphale was always nice and polite, always ready to help anyone in need, and offered intelligent conversation. A combination you didn’t find that often in someone.

“Very. You’re our first. Care for a cocktail?”

But Aziraphale shook his head lightly. “No alcohol at the moment, thank you. I am waiting someone.”

Fred grimaced. So this was _that_ kind of visit. He knew better than to ask who was going to meet the book-keeper there. Aziraphale probably didn’t know it himself yet. “A tea, then? Sencha? Assam? Masala chai?”

He was rewarded with a beam at his third proposal. “Thank you, my dear. That would be lovely.”

Fred busied himself with the paper thin china cup and saucer that were exclusively reserved to Aziraphale’s use, as were the fifteen various blend of rare tea under the counter. Well, he’d find today’s mood after only three tries. He was getting better at this. Although not as good as Peter, but the man had a good twenty years head start.

“Here you are. Should I also expect the arrival of some mysterious, dark stranger in sunglasses?” he teased as he handed the cup to his customer.

Aziraphale chuckled. “I think it is a fairly good possibility. I texted him. Thank you dear, it smells wonderful.”

“Only the best for you,” answered the barman with a smile. He was sincere. Fred knew he was a bit of a flirt, but not with Aziraphale. Well, there had been that one time, but he didn’t know the man then.

The bookshop owner settled in at the counter, opening a book he’d fished out of his waistcoat pocket, and Fred got back to his bottles without wondering how the volume could have fit there. This was one of the least surprising things Aziraphale was capable of, and in this establishment you learned quickly not to pay attention to the regulars’ quirks. So Thomas had a funny laugh, Maisy never finished a drink, Mal could talk about entomology for hours, even without an audience, and Aziraphale did have a propensity to manifest old, heavy books out of his pockets, read minds and shine a little when he was eating Peter’s famous plum pudding.

The door opened again, and this time Peter didn’t wave, but closed his paper and squinted his eyes. Fred’s did the opposite and widened in shock, his reassuring smile dying on his lips.

He’d been expecting something else. Aziraphale showing up out of the blue and ordering tea usually meant a despaired, lost kid was about to arrive, in need of shelter and acceptance, both things they would find the instant they stepped in and met the angel (as was the fond nickname for Aziraphale in the Treadmill).

But these two didn’t seem like some teens kicked out of their houses. The biggest clue was the handguns, of course. Dead giveaway, that.

 _Fuck_! Thought Fred, frozen on the spot, as the two guys walked to the till.

“Open it, and give us the money,” ordered the first one in a tone that brooked no argument.

Aziraphale tutted and got up. Fred’s gaze shot to him in anguish. _Oh no! Not this!_ He brusquely remembered how to move and extended an arm to grab him. Old books didn’t stop _bullets_! The clearing of a throat had him look at his boss. Still sitting, Peter shook his head at him, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

That’s when Fred remembered what Peter had told him some months ago, now. _“If there’s trouble someday while he’s here, don’t try to meddle.”_

Reluctantly, he let go of Aziraphale’s shoulder. The door opened again, and this time the lanky figure stepping in was a familiar one. Crowley stopped in the entryway, hands in his pockets, head tilted to the side and a large grin spreading on his face as he took in the scene in front of him. One of the robbers had turned to him and waved his gun menacingly.

“Oh. Am I interrupting?” asked Crowley sweetly.

“You, go sit there with the other,” yelled the robber, pointing to Peter’s table. “And you, give us the damn cash!” he added in Fred’s direction.

Crowley pouted, but complied, sprawling next to Peter with a yawn. “Angeeeeel… I’m thirsty. Can you get a bloody wiggle on?”

Aziraphale folded his arms. “I’ll have you know I was about to, before you barged in so rudely!”

“What? Rude? _Me_? How could you say such a hurtful thing!” gasped Crowley, his hand flying dramatically to his heart.

Fred, opening the till, wondered if everyone had gone mad.

“You two shut up!” growled the first robber, aiming at Aziraphale. “One more word and I’ll shoot you, you fucking-”

“Why, no need to be _crass_!” exclaimed the angel, turning back to him in outrage. Fred couldn’t see his face, but the two men could, and something was clearly happening there, because both guns suddenly dropped to the floor and the two burglars ran to the door in terror.

Crowley got up again and sauntered after them lazily.

“Red or white, my dear?” called the angel after him.

“Surprise me!” answered the other as the door closed behind him.

Aziraphale shook his head with a long suffering sigh. “Well then, I guess I am in the mood for some nice white. Would you be so kind as to fetch us a bottle of Gewurstraminer, my dear? Crowley won’t be long, I am sure.”

Fred blinked, still holding a bundle of banknotes. Then a comforting hand gently touched his wrist and all the fear and anguish of the last minutes dissolved, replaced by a warm, peaceful feeling. He slowly put the cash down in the till, and smiled to Aziraphale. This would have to be added to the long list of _Quirks_ _Y_ _ou’re_ _N_ _ot_ _S_ _upposed_ _T_ _o_ _T_ _alk_ _A_ _bout._

“What are you waiting, Fred? You’ve got an order,” declared Peter, calmly unfolding his paper again and frowning at his crosswords. Three vertical was giving him a hard time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These two guys didn't intend to rob a pub. There were heading somewhere else, but ended at the Treadmill. Strange things happen in Soho sometimes...
> 
> Next prompt is "alternate universe" and I have NO CLUE... yet.  
> So I guess I'll be back to my wing fic and also that poor Aziraphale's walkabout (No I didn't forget about it I swear!!) until I find an idea for this prompt.  
> Three days weekend for me, so you'll have a chapter tomorrow and monday. I already started the next wing grooming story and since the boys needed some calm it's awfully fluffy^^


	7. Alternate Universe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley loves to ask questions.  
> Until the day he starts his last one with "What if..."  
> And a new form of Armageddon is unleashed over Soho.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this story for my wonderful friend megzseattle!  
> I hope it will make you laugh!

“What if we were humans in an alternate universe?” asked Crowley with a thoughtful frown.

“What kind?” answered the angel, squinting his eyes as he signed his letter with a flourish, before drying the ink with a snap of his fingers.

“Whot d’ya mean, what kind?”

“Well, what kind of alternate universe, dear? Like this one, but without angels and demons? Or a different one? Is it medieval? Does dragons exist? Vampires? _Oh!_ What about _magic_?” Aziraphale put his quill away, warming to the discussion.

Crowley, sprawled on the sofa, slowly pushed his glasses down his nose to convey without the slightest doubt how much self restraint he had to exert on himself to _not_ roll his eyes.

“You are such a nerd, angel. Normal world, just, you know… us being humans.”

Aziraphale pouted at the lack of imagination, but complied. “All right then. What about it?”

“Who do you think we would be? Would you be a real bookshop owner? Or something else entirely?”

“I _am_ a real bookshop owner!” exclaimed Aziraphale, incensed.

Crowley grinned like a shark. “I mean one who would _sell_ books. You know, for a living?”

The angel shuddered, making the same face he’d made that time in Sumer, when Crowley had convinced him to take a good bite at a pickled lime, telling him it was the sweetest dessert he’d ever tried (that face alone had been worth the ensuing smiting). “ _Certainly not!_ I wouldn’t survive it. Maybe… maybe I would be a teacher? I do love literature, and-”

Crowley barked a laughter. “You? A _teacher_? Ha! That’s just priceless! You don’t even know how to talk to kids!”

“...no need to make fun...” murmured the angel, opening a drawer in search of an envelope.

Crowley’s laugh died down. Aziraphale wasn’t the kind to let go. He should have answered either with a well placed taunt or a thunderous rant. Any other reaction was worrying.

“I mean… I didn’t say you would be a _bad_ one! Just… what I meant was...”

The angel watched his friend splutter and flail his hands helplessly for a moment before taking pity on him.

“A coffee shop, then. I could serve delicious tea to my customers, and coffee from all around the world to people like you who have no taste buds. And I would bake little muffins and pies!” His face lightened up as he imagined it. “Oh, I could have shelves with books for the customers to read! It would be quiet, and cosy… students could come to do some research… it would be a soothing place to feel at peace! So many humans are running all day long...”

“Boooooring!” interrupted Crowley with a wide grin. “Why would you want such a dull, uneventful life?”

“My life isn’t _dull_!”

The demon waved his hand dismissively. “Because you’re _immortal_! That’s absolutely not the same! You’re not wasting _your_ time, time is unlimited! Plus you can miracle almost anything you want. This life as a human would be utterly different.”

“Well, what would _you_ do, then, since you’re such an expert on humanity’s way of life?” answered the angel with a tone of voice that had _also_ Crowley think of pickled lime.

“I would open a coffee shop right across the street… neat, trendy, fast. Cups you can write the customer’s names onto. Ssssso modern...”

Aziraphale stood up so fast his chair fell to the floor. “You WOULDN’T!”

Crowley stretched lazily before standing up, grinning so widely he would have put the Cheshire's cat to shame.

“Oh, I _would,_ angel. If only to save your customers from dying of boredom in your stuffy shop.”

“You… you _can’t_ do that! There must be laws against it!” spluttered the angel, getting redder by the second.

Crowley raised an eyebrow and took his best mansplaining voice. “T’s called competition, angel. Free country here, you know. Fighting to survive is the most _human_ thing in the world. If you can’t adapt, then you have to disappear.”

The angel’s eyes had turned an alarming shade of blue, and his face was now pale with seething rage. “You want to make my coffee shop _disappear_?” he managed in a voice way too controlled.

Crowley showed the tip of his hands in his front pockets with a snort. “At least I could achieve it without letting it drop off my sleeve!”

Aziraphale gasped. “How DARE you insult my magic skills?”

Crowley, halfway to the front door, chuckled. “ _Skills_? What _skills_?”

* * *

  
  


A.Z Fell and Co’s neighbourhood was in a turmoil. Never had anyone heard such a heated argument from the bookshop. Every curtain trembled as Mr. Crowley headed out of the bookshop with long strides, Mr. Fell following him to the doorstep seconds later, yelling at the top of his lungs.

“You will NOT succeed, do you hear me? You will _never_ have my shop! I will stop at nothing, Crowley! **NOTHING**!”

Mr. Crowley opened his car’s window furiously. “Your stupid shop is going DOWN, angel! In two weeks you’ll be out of bloody _business_!”

“That’s it! You’re _banned_! You’re banned for life, you serpent! Drink your own disgusting coffee, because it’s the only one you’ll _ever_ get from now on! I hope you’ll choke on it!”

The Bentley drove away with a furious roar, and the door to the bookshop slammed so hard that Ms. Meshel’s china rattled in its cupboard.

For the following half hour, everyone in the street whispered furiously, shocked and concerned.

“How can M. Crowley want to take poor M. Fell’s bookshop? Can he even _do_ that? They’re not married, right? Did they _elope_?

“I can’t believe it. They were so adorable together. And to think he threatened the _shop_!”

“How did this even happen?”

“Miss Kay told me that apparently, Mr. Fell had burned M. Crowley by accident with a whole pot of coffee!”

“Oh, poor Mr. Crowley!”

“How can you take _his_ side!”

“Why are you all so worried? I yell all the time too.”

“It’s not the _same_ , Mr. Fitzpatrick! It’s serious! They’ve broken up!”

“What are you talking about? I didn’t hear anything break in the bookshop. And I’m next door!”

Aziraphale’s neighbours gave up at Explaining Things to Mr. Fitzpatrick, and started yelling at one another again.

The street was at war. 43B building had had such words with 45 that the Capulet and Montagu feud would have seemed a child’s quarrel in comparison.

Old friends had vowed never to speak to each other again. The rare tourists that dared venture into the street were frantically trying to exchange their return ticket, desperate to leave such a savage country.

Twenty nine minutes after the beginning of the Events, the familiar shape of a black Bentley turned the corner. The yelling stopped, everyone taking shelter to watch from a safe distance.

Mr. Crowley got out and casually sauntered to the bookshop’s door, opening it without a knock to yell inside.

“Come oooon, Aziraphale! You promised this morning that you’ll be ready at a quarter to eight!”

Something must have been answered, because the red-haired man threw his arms upwards in despair. “ _Yes_ , it’s eight already! You _said_ you would be waiting outside! Wh… What are you _doing_? You’re fine! NO, it’s not bloody _WRINKLED_!”

A ten seconds silence followed, and everyone held their breath.

“I didn’t _raise my voice!_ I only said it wasn’t wrinkled!”

Another silence, then “No, you don’t need to change your waistcoat… **because** it’s FINE! No, I didn’t _lie_ to make you get out, if I lied you wouldn’t even suspect it! Rhaaaaa! I ss _said_ it wasn’t fucking _wrinkled_!”

“All right, all right, no need to be so dramatic, dear boy,” said Mr. Fell, smiling happily as he closed the bookshop’s door.

Mr. Crowley spluttered. “Dramatic? You _promised_ you would-”

“Yes, yes, I know, it was such a _dreadful_ transgression,” answered Mr. Fell in a patient voice, patting his friend’s shoulder. “I promise I will make it up to you. How about I pay the wine tonight?”

Mr. Crowley tilted his head in a gesture that could only be described as “fond”, even by his worse critics (building 43B).

“Are you seriously using a _promise_ to make me forgive a breach of promise? I _invented_ that!”

“I know you did. Is it working?” asked Mr Fell, arching an eyebrow, his hand on the car door.

For a second, Mr. Crowley gaped at him, before laughing out loud as he opened his own door. “’Course it’s working. It’s the best fake apology I ever invented.”

With a chuckle, Mr. Fell entered the car.

Everyone walked out of their homes to watch the Bentley disappear round the corner.

Then, careful not to meet anyone else’s eyes, every member of the crowd furiously tried to find a way to Make Things Back To Normal.

Mr. Fitzpatrick stepped out, closed his shop’s door carefully, and finally looked up, blinking in wonder at the unusual cluster of people.

“What are y’all doing here? Is it Pride day already? Did I miss Pride day _again_?”

A relieved laugh coursed through the crowd.

“Not yet, Mr. Fitzpatrick. We’re just… enjoying the fresh air.”

“Ah, that’s good. Can’t miss it twice in a row. My grand-daughter would have my head,” declared the old butcher seriously, slipping his key in his pocket and walking away with his slow gait.

* * *

  
  


Not very far away, an angel and a demon sat at a table at the Ritz.

“You know, Crowley, about this alternate universe thing, I have been thinking...”

“Really? Ready to surrender to my superior taste? If you sell your coffee shop to me, I won’t fire your employees.”

“Oh, you are so _bad_ at being evil, even in other universes… no, I was thinking about what we would be, if we were any different.”

“You know you’re the only being in the world who would think about it seriously, right?”

“Don’t interrupt, dear boy. Anyway, I came to a conclusion.”

“All right, angel, enlighten me.”

“I do not know what I will be had I been created different. But I am quite certain I would _always_ have been your friend... I cannot picture us as enemies.

“...”

“Crowley? Do you not agree? Crowley, are you… dear Lord, no need to hide behind your glasses! I _know_ how sensitive you are. There is nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I AM NOT SENSITIVE!”

“All right... Hmm… do you… want my handkerchief?”

“T’s this bloody pollen.”

“I know, my dear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I adore coffee shop AUs! 😉  
> (Ok I love all kinds of AU^^)
> 
> Next prompt is FAMILY.  
> I love that freakin' prompt SO damn MUCH!


	8. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fred receives a young customer...  
> A doubly Young customer, actually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One prompt a day...  
> Day one: check!  
> So proud of myself...  
> It's the pub AGAIN today! What can I say? I love the Treadmill^^
> 
> Tomorrow's prompt is "Doubt" and if you are familiar with my universe, you KNOW how it will end!!!^^  
> I am writting already. I mean... DOUBT??? Of course I have inspiration for THAT one!!

Fred was getting bored, and it said a lot. He was a cheerful, positive sort of fellow, and almost always had something to do or think about. But today was soooo dull...

He'd seen two customers since the opening, three hours ago. The Treadmill was a quiet sort of pub, but it usually was much more alive, and the barman was regretting not having brought a book with him this morning like he usually did.

Peter, the owner, was out on an errand, M. Fitzpatrick had fallen asleep on his booth like every Friday afternoon, and would pretend he was merely resting his eyes if anyone remarked on it, and the lady at the other end of the bar seemed like the 'lonely and happy with it' kind. Talking to her wouldn't be well received.

Fred considered trying some new cocktail recipes, but ditched the idea. He wasn't _that_ bored yet.

Oh, for the love of God, could something happen? Anything!

The door opened, letting in a gust of wind, a dog and a child. Fred smiled. Well, that was something. He was used to seeing teens enter here by now, but they were usually a little older, and a lot more lost and desperate. This one looked happy and healthy. In fact, Fred was positive he hadn't seen a more happy and healthy looking child in his entire life.

“Hi, kid. I'm Fred.” Always introduce yourself. Don't ask questions straight away.

“Hello, sir,” answered the child politely, sitting on a stool with some effort. “I'm Adam. Do you have any pineapple juice?”

“I certainly do,” answered Fred with a grin, eyeing the dog as he settled under Adam's seat. Dogs were allowed on a leash only, but this one seemed obedient enough, and Fred wasn’t the type to play by the rules if he didn’t feel like it.

He served the boy his juice without insulting him by asking if he had something to pay with. He was fairly certain the kid wasn’t the kind to go into a bar for a free drink, and if he was wrong he was ready to pay for it himself, if only for the distraction.

He opened the tap and assessed his newest customer. Not a runaway, he decided. Questions allowed.

“So, are you waiting for someone, mister Adam?”

The boy nodded, his bouncing curls making Fred think of Shirley Temple.

“I’m waiting for my uncles. They’re at the bakery, choosing dessert for tonight. It will probably take a while. They’re arguing.”

“Ah. Sorry about that,” answered Fred, sympathizing. He knew how it felt to hear adults quarrel constantly about every little thing. He hoped Adam wasn’t living full time with his uncles.

“It’s okay, they love arguing. I argue a lot with my friends too,” declared the boy, gulping down his pineapple juice like a man just getting out of a desert.

Fred smiled and walked around the counter to put a bowl of water on the floor next to the dog.

“So they have trouble choosing dessert, then?” he asked lightly, watching as the dog lapped twice, more out of politeness than real thirst, before curling up on the floor again.

“Oh no! Uncle Z _always_ chooses dessert. No, they’re arguing because of George. We left him at home and he’s sick. Uncle Z says he can survive on his own for the evening, and...” the boy seemed to ponder, looking at Fred pensively. “And my other uncle wanted to bring him with us. Said he couldn’t leave his kid on his own when he’s so heavily dehydrated.”

Fred frowned. He didn’t like to meddle in his customer’s personal lives, but…

“How old is Georges?” he asked, grabbing a clean cloth and starting to wipe the pristine counter. He was so intent on appearing casual that he didn’t notice the mischievous little smile that flickered on the child’s face.

“Oh, I’m not sure... Same age as the prince. that’s why he’s called George.”

_Who the fuck leaves a sick six year old on his own to go to the fucking pub?_ thought Fred, starting to worry.

 _And who wants to_ bring _a sick six year old at the pub? Cant’ they just cancel their night out?_

He looked at Adam, finishing his glass of juice with a smile. The boy seemed fine. Maybe there was a nanny or a babysitter after all… but a couple more innocent questions couldn’t hurt, right?

He tapped his nails on the counter rapidly, a tic he always had when feeling nervous.

The door opened again and Fred’s eyes shot to it. Maybe it was the uncles. If they were regulars, he would have a better understanding of the situation.

It was a regular, but certainly not one of Adam’s uncle. Fred smiled in relief. If there _was_ a problem, this person would certainly be able to help.

“Hello, Fred. How are you today?”

“Hi, Aziraphale. Fine, thanks. On your own tonight?”

The innocent question made the bookshop keeper frown.

“Crowley will join us later,” answered the angel through gritted teeth.

 _Oh_. Aziraphale was angry, realized Fred. But Aziraphale was _never_ angry.

“Is there a problem? Can I help?” asked the bartender hurriedly. “Did something happen to Crowley?

Aziraphale gasped, and raised his hands hurriedly “Oh, no! No, my dear, do not worry. This is ridiculous, to be honest. Crowley and I just had a little disagreement… everything is fine. Perfectly tickety boo, I assure you.”

 _Tickety boo?_ Wondered Fred, confused.

“Anyway,” added the angel, clasping his hands loudly with a bright smile. “Let us enjoy this delightful evening before that foul fiend’s return.”

“Too late,” declared Adam with a grin, tilting his head to the door. Aziraphale sighed.

“Hi everyone!” yelled Crowley, entering with his usual swagger.

For a second, time seemed to freeze, every person in the pub looking wide eyed at the thing Crowley was dragging in.

“That’s my hand truck,” declared Mr. Fitzpatrick from his booth.

Crowley grimaced. “Ah, yeah... I borrowed it. Hope it’s okay. See, George wasn’t feeling so well, I didn’t have the heart to leave him at the shop. Wanted to keep an eye on him.”

“That makes sense,” reckoned the old man, nodding.

“Wh… How… No, it does _not_!” erupted Aziraphale, gesticulating at the large plant Crowley was carefully settling near the counter. “You cannot bring a seventy pounds ficus into a _bar_ , Crowley!”

“He’s not _that_ heavy! It’s the pot!” yelled back his friend.

“It could have stayed at the bookshop!”

“What, in his state? Look at him! He needs constant care! What kind of a sick bastard would leave him alone with your psychopath mouse anyway? George is family, angel!”

“Oh, I see! And Algernon _**isn’t**_ , then?”

Ignoring the yelling that was worsening more and more every second, Fred slowly turned jaded eyes to Adam, who grinned back widely. They stared at each other for a few seconds.

Fred crossed his arms.“A plant. George is _a plant._ ”

“You should have seen your face,” answered the kid, holding out his empty glass. “Can I have another one?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes... Crowley is a bad influence on Adam, ha ha ha!!  
> But Adam is half demonic after all. And he knew Fred was one of his uncle's friends. They'd talked about him.
> 
> In case you're wondering WHY would Crowley care so much about a plant and coddle it that way... it will be explained in another prompt.  
> George is SPECIAL.


	9. Doubt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is in the middle of a Very Important Work when he senses something wrong...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two days, two posts!  
> I'm ON SCHEDULE!

Crowley started to sense it during lunch break.

Not his lunch break, of course, but that of the CEO’s secretary. It could hardly have happened at a worse time, to be quite honest. He’d spent literally years pulling that particular caper, infiltrating diverse companies to end here, in this office, with his miniature smoke machine and ventilator, three of his best rats waiting on the desk in their tiny air-proof gear, silent and intent. They had trained for this instant their whole lives. This was the crucial moment. Now or never. Literally.  
Heart thrumming wildly, he was grinning like a shark as he imagined Beelzebub’s face when they would receive the report on such a tour de force from the rogue agent that wasn't even on Hell’s payroll anymore (not that Hell had anything resembling a payroll).  
The best vengeance was to make them look like amateurs. He knew very well that other demons didn’t have the slightest bit of imagination. And if he’d started this particular wile way before defecting, no one had to know.

  
Just as he was about to reach out to the first rat, it happened. That overwhelming feeling of deep satisfaction. Joy. Fulfillment. It was the purest happiness, something demons didn’t feel on a regular basis.  
Someone was doubting. Someone was on the edge, and needed a little nudge in the right direction. And for the feeling to be so intense, it had to be an angel.  
Crowley’s hand had stopped an inch over the rat, who squeaked a question.  
“Mission canceled, guys, go back to HQ,” he managed to utter as he started to run to the stairs.

  
It was coming from the bookshop. Aziraphale was doubting, in the bookshop. What was happening?  
It took him the entire way down the building to remember he could teleport. With a curse and a snap, he was at the shop’s doorstep, peering inside as he reached for the door handle. Aziraphale was…  
Actually, Aziraphale was rearranging the mystery novels section, whistling, if Crowley’s eyes (and, unfortunately, ears) weren’t deceiving him.

  
The angel didn’t seem about to Fall any second. In fact, he mostly seemed on the verge to turn the “closed” sign, preferably right at the moment a customer would try to get in, put some stupid classic music on his gramophone and fix himself a tea.  
Crowley closed his eyes under a wave of relief, then remembered the task he’d just abandoned for nothing, and pulled at his hair while uttering a string of profanities in complete silence.

  
He could feel an accusing glare boring into his back. With a sigh, he turned around. Three little silhouettes in yellow plastic outfits were looking up at him from the floor.  
“Listen, guys… I’m sorry, okay? We’ll find another way.”  
Dubious eyes met his.  
“Don’t look at me like that, Corday! It was a life or death situation! Hey! Diderot! don’t you dare wheeze at me! You can’t understand! T’was freaking urgent! And you, Alienor, stop squinting like this. It doesn’t scare anyone.”  
One of the rat looked away haughtily.  
“Aw, come oooon, Corday… don’t sulk! I said I was sorry... Day..? Day! Oi, Charlotte! I apologized!”

  
The pouting rat trotted away, nose held high, and disappeared into a storm drain, quickly followed by her wheezing friend. Crowley sighed. He was fairly certain he’d find poo in his shoes if he had any. He stared at the remaining rat. “Are you gonna bite me?”  
She shrugged and squeezed under the bookshop’s door, her tail brushing the demon’s feet. Alienor always had been understanding. Had Crowley allowed himself to have favorites, she certainly would have been on top of his list.

  
He could have done without her bad taste in romantic interests, though. He perfectly knew how much time she was spending under the shelves with Aziraphale’s psychotic mouse. Algernon and Crowley hated each other, and it was a low blow to see his underling getting along with the wanker.

The doorbell jingled, startling the demon.  
“Crowley? What are you doing? Come in, it’s raining.”  
It was, realized Crowley, following his friend inside.  
“Weren’t you supposed to spend your day out? You told me you wouldn’t be back until dinner. Is everything all right?” wondered Aziraphale, turning the sign to “Closed” and locking the door with a snap of his fingers.

The door handle rattled. It often did that. That angel had a knack to bar the entrance just at the right time. Usually in somebody’s nose.  
“Yeaaah...” drawled the demon. “I… changed my mind.”  
Aziraphale shot him a sharp glance.  
“Changed your mind? Today? You changed your mind about your ‘awesomely ominous plan’? He did the quotations marks with his fingers. Crowley suppressed an urge to strangle him. He mentally cursed Brian, who taught it to the angel.  
“I’m… t’s nothing, really. Just had a feeling, is all...”  
“What kind of feeling?” asked the angel, who was like a bloodhound when he wanted to be. Crowley surrendered. There was no way to avoid this conversation.  
“I sensed doubt. Thought it was you. It was very loud, and it felt angelic!” he added hurriedly, seeing his friend’s frown.  
“How… are you feeling now?” asked Aziraphale after a few seconds.  
Crowley blinked. How was he feeling? Well… good. Very good. He gasped. “It’s still there!”  
“I cannot sense anything,” murmured the angel, looking around in confusion. “They must be hiding their presence.” He squinted his eyes, focusing, and bit his lip. “I… think I am sensing someone. It looks like… it looks like Uriel’s aura.”  
With a snap, he conjured an umbrella and headed to the door. Crowley gaped.  
“What the heck do you think you’re doing?”  
“If they are doubting this much, they need help, Crowley.”  
“Who cares? It’s Uriel!”  
“I care,” answered his friend casually, stepping out. “’But I would perfectly understand if you’d rather stay here.”

  
 _Like Heaven I’ll stay here,_ thought the demon, following. He could feel the phantom caress of Hellfire on his skin. Uriel had looked so indifferent… like killing Aziraphale was just another board meeting. It was even worse than Gabriel’s contempt or Sandalphon’s glee. Businesslike murder. What a freak.  
The archangel was hiding on a doorstep facing the shop. They looked from Aziraphale to Crowley with wild eyes.

  
“Hello, Uriel. What a pleasant surprise,” greeted the angel in a tone that belied his words.  
“Aziraphale,” answered Uriel, fear etched on their every features. “Have you come to destroy me?”  
“Why on Earth would I do such a thing?” the angel burst out, shocked.   
“You threw Hellfire at me,” pointed Uriel.  
“You threw me in Hellfire,” answered Aziraphale matter of factly. “You can hardly blame me for that little outburst, given the circumstances. Attempted murder tends to put some people on edge, you do realize that, don’t you?”

  
The archangel didn’t answer. They didn’t seem to listen, looking around as if completely lost. Aziraphale sighed.  
 _Fuck_ , thought Crowley, loud enough to earn a frown from his friend. _He’s going to try and help them._  
“Why don’t we take a seat in that nice little bakery and chat a little while, hmm?” offered the angel, gently taking Uriel’s elbow. They followed obediently, eyes unfocussed.  
“What, in the middle of humans?” hissed Crowley in his friend’s ear. “Why not in the bookshop?”

  
He didn’t _want_ the wanker in the bookshop, but it seemed less risky. Aziraphale looked at him like he was mad.  
“Oh, no, dear, I couldn’t do this. Algernon and dear Alienor need their privacy.  
With a retching noise, Crowley opened the bakery’s door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uriel will be there for tomorrow's prompt: Miracle.


	10. Miracle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uriel has a request...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm late!! But I'll post another one later today to catch up on my schedule!!

They were sitting near a window, Crowley’s legs thrown haphazardly into the aisle, blocking Uriel’s way. Not that the Archangel could try anything fishy, powerless as they were, but Crowley lived to annoy, and that wanker was too good a target.

Aziraphale joined them with a black coffee for Crowley and two teas for Uriel and himself. He’d also bought two slices of chocolate cake, and put one in front of their guest.

“So...” started the Principality, lifting his cup in one hand and his saucer in the other, “can you tell us what is troubling you, Uriel?”

The Archangel startled at the question and ceased to contemplate their cake.

“Troubling? Nothing… nothing is troubling me!” they hastened to answer.

Crowley rolled his eyes. And here he’d always thought Aziraphale was the worst liar that ever existed…

“Why were you outside the bookshop, then? Were you spying on me?”

Uriel shook their head. “No, I was not, I swear.”

Crowley squinted his eyes at his friend. Aziraphale took a sip of tea, pinkie finger in the air, the image of perfect innocence… but the demon could feel the steely determination building up somewhere under that soft appearance. Aziraphale was asking questions. That was not something he did often, and when it happened, it tended to end ugly.

“Were you spying on Crowley, then?” asked the angel lightly, delivering a Look over the rim of his teacup.

The Archangel swallowed nervously, eyes darting to Crowley in fear.

 _Fool_ , thought the demon, chuckling inwardly. He wasn’t the greatest danger in the room at the moment.

“I… I was...” blurted Uriel.

Aziraphale’s posture hardened.

“I was only looking!” pleaded his former boss. “Only looking! I wanted to understand!”

Crowley’s curiosity finally got the better of him. “Understand what?”

“How… how you could have survived Holy Water! How Aziraphale survived Hellfire! If he turned into something unholy enough to withstand the fire, why would She punish us for trying?”

Crowley felt his nails starting to turn into claws. Thinking of the column of Hellfire was enough to make him want to strangle someone. But having someone talk about it… precisely one of the persons responsible for it in the first place? He was bloody furious.

He took a deep breath. Do not discorporate a powerless Archangel. Aziraphale wouldn’t like it.

He glanced at his friend, and blinked.

Aziraphale was looking at Uriel with wrath etched over his feature.

“I do hope, for your sake, that you didn’t come here today to test us… do you have any Holy Water on your person? Were you here to see if Crowley was still immune to it?”

Crowley slowly pushed his chair backward, out of smiting range, and absorbed himself in the contemplation of the ceiling. If Uriel did have any Holy Water on them, then they were a goner, and he would not interfere. He was retired after all.

“No, of course not! She punished me for trying it already! I am not stupid!”

“Well, if you say so,” mumbled the demon. Aziraphale bit his lips to suppress a smile.

“Only watching us? Really? Will you swear you had no other motive in mind?”

Uriel looked down. _Here we go_ , thought Crowley. _that’s where they’ll stop lying._

“I...” started the Archangel, glancing nervously, “Not exactly. I had a favor to ask of you. A small miracle, nothing big, really...”

They trailed off in front of the two incredulous pair of eyes that stared at them.

“A miracle?” asked Aziraphale like he had trouble believing his ears. “For you? You want me to do a _miracle_ … for _you_?”

The angel, when truly pissed off, could talk in italics. You could hear the contempt dripping from his words. Crowley certainly related to that. Centuries of asking, no, _ordering_ their wayward Principality to abstain from “useless miracles” and as soon as it became personal, here they were, begging for favors.

“Just a little one. It wouldn’t take a lot of Grace...” started Uriel, desperate.

“I will certainly _not_! God put you on this Earth to experience mortal life the human way. If She wants you to manage without powers for a while, who am I to interfere?”

“It isn’t for me!” cried the Archangel. Everyone in the bakery turned to them. With a sigh, Crowley waved at the other customers, who got back to their purchases.

Aziraphale was staring at his ex colleague with a frown. “Not for you? Who do you need a miracle for, then?”

Uriel fidgeted with their empty spoon. “I… I had trouble adapting to mortal life, at first… then these people sheltered me and offered me meals to eat. They help a lot of other humans who are living on the street. I want to repay them.”

Both angel and demon gaped.

“You...” said Crowley, slowly, “want to bless some humans for being nice to you?”

“I do,” answered Uriel, still looking at Aziraphale. Who finished his tea, looking out the window, before speaking.

“You know, Uriel, kindness is its own reward...” he shot a tentative look to his friend, who shrugged. “But in this case, I think I can make an exception.”

Uriel looked shocked. “Really? You will?”

Crowley frowned, tilting his head to look at Aziraphale over his sunglasses.

_What the heck, angel? You want to_ help _them?_

His friend answered with a long suffering sigh and a Look.

So… no, then. Aziraphale wasn’t doing it for Uriel…

“They’re learning _compassion_ , Crowley”, murmured the angel through greeted teeth, low enough not to be heard by anyone else.

 _Oh_ , thought the demon. _Oh, right… that may be worth it._

Of course Aziraphale would be ready to help Uriel learn a little kindness during their stay on Earth. They would be back as one of Heaven’s leaders soon enough. Angels deserved a warmer home. Humanity deserved care and understanding. This could change a lot of things.

“Yes,” declared the angel, nodding seriously. “I will do it. You will owe me a favor, of course.”

Uriel beamed. “Thank you. I will remember it, I promise!”

Crowley leaned back, pursuing his lips in an impressed pout.

Aziraphale may be a crappy liar, but, _man_ did he know how to bluff! He knew how miraculous the archangel’s demand seemed to his friend, and how willing he was to grant it. And still, he’d managed to get something out of it.

Couldn’t hurt to have an Archangel indebted to them.

Satisfied, the angels ate in silence, and Crowley lazily sipped his coffee, wondering if he could salvage his morning caper and try it again next week. He grinned as the shop’s radio started to blurt familiar notes.

Uriel looked around wildly. “Someone is screaming! What… what is happening?”

“Nothing,” laughed Aziraphale, taking another bite. “It is only music.”

“What?” blurted the Archangel.

Aziraphale smiled sweetly. “Immigrant Song, if I recall correctly.”

Crowley choked on his coffee. His friend patted his back with a pout.

“Really, dear boy, no need to appear so surprised. I do like some modern bebop from time to time.”

The demon’s thoughts were too numerous to get out of his mouth. _How on Earth did you remember the title?_ Was fighting with _You never remember any song’s title!_ And _Led Zeppelin is NOT bebop!_

All he managed, though, was “Modern? _Modern_ , angel?”

Uriel plunged their spoon in the chocolate cake and took a bite, considering.

“Isn’t Immigrant a strange name to give a human child?” they finally asked.

Crowley choked again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tomorrow's prompt is "Old Fashioned".  
> It's an interesting one!


	11. Old Fashioned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After all this time, Aziraphale can still surprise his best friend...  
> Or "How to shock a Crowley in one lesson"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt wasn't... as inspiring as I thought. But the words ARE in the fic, so I guess that counts?  
> I had SO MUCH FUN writing that one (even if I almost fell asleep on my computer finishing it).

Aziraphale was considered an angel of habits by most of his human neighbors and former coworkers. He could always be found at the same places, and rarely ventured out of Soho, except of course on Thursdays and Sundays, when both he and Crowley travelled to Tadfield to teach the Antichrist how to control his tremendous powers (if most of the lessons involved much more cake eating than practicing, no one seemed to complain so far).

But to think the Principality predictable was an error. Crowley could tell you so. He could even point out something even more surprising: he was, in his opinion, much more predictable than the angel.

First, you could hardly find him awake before noon, and if that was the case, it was because some humans had no common decency and continued to invite him to lunch. He was perfectly capable of telling Anathema to change her bloody invitations into supper, but she always had Newt make the call, and Crowley had a soft spot for Newt. You couldn’t yell at him without imagining his face crumbling down in sadness, and he never yelled back, only apologized. Anathema knew perfectly that her husband was Crowley’s Kryptonite.

So… sleeping. First habit, and not one he intended to change any day soon, thank you very much.

Second: coffee. Crowley always, always needed coffee before even opening his eyes. He usually got it pressed into his hand as soon as he stretched to wake up after one of his naps. No coffee meant a very grumpy demon. Invariably.

Then there were the plants. Crowley threatened them once a day, at sunset. Twice if he was in a particularly good mood. With the notable exception of his Anogramma ascensionis, who always behaved, like the lady she was (and was a gift from the angel, so couldn’t be Yelled At), and George, who… well, it was  _George_ . The bastard always seemed on the verge of death, and Crowley had to go to the horticulture shop in a hurry at least twice a month to buy special fertilizer or green pesticides (because  _of course_ George was allergic to most chemicals). 

He was fairly certain the Ficus was doing it on purpose. He’d got lice, once. Lice! How was that even possible? Crowley had  _nightmares_ about George, but there was no way around it, the plant had to stay alive and as healthy as possible (he wouldn’t fit in the garbage disposal anyway).

Aziraphale, on the other hand, had no schedule whatsoever. Opening hours were a vague concept, always in motion. Sleeping was something he looked at like some would consider dogs: he could understand why Crowley indulged, he was able to appreciate it when it hit him, but would never adopt the habit himself.

His consumption of tea was absolutely erratic. He could drink mug after mug of it for hours, then the following day leave it untouched and cold on his desk for hours.

Even his readings were unpredictible. The angel could read a mystery novel and switch to a poem half-way through, make a little detour with ten chapters of a medieval fantasty tome, and get back to the mystery without a sweat. Sometimes he did it when Very Serious Customers were in the shop, browsing with a little too much enthusiasm.

Crowley would never have guessed how annoying reading several books at a time could be to some humans, but he'd taken up the habit after the angel made a professor cry and run away only by reading Wilde next to him for five minutes, then closing his book mid-chapter and picking up the Two Towers to open it at random and start reading with a happy sigh. And even if Crowley knew the angel had started it to annoy the human, he hadn't even noticed the customer leaving, so engrossed he was in Helm's deep battle...

Aziraphale could appear predictable, with his proper behaviours, old fashioned clothes, and calm demeanour. But the truth was, underneath all this the Principality was like a mad electron. He could change course for no reason other than a sudden craving for crumpets, a cute baby in his stroller, or a ray of sunshine dancing on a puddle. 

And it was the same for big decisions. Who could have guessed he would follow the impulse to give away his sword? No one. What kind of angel got so many memos reminding him NOT to use some miracle or other? None. Crowley might have felt sorry for Gabriel, in retrospect, if he didn't hate him with all his might. Aziraphale was a fucking nightmare to deal with when you were his boss. It wasn't that he  _wanted_ to disobey... but he would if he Felt Like It at the time. Which was often.

Aziraphale, in Crowley's opinion, would have made a terrific demon. Literally. Not that he wished it to ever happen, of course. And it wouldn't, Aziraphale was way too good (and stubborn) to Fall.

That angel was the definition of the word  _chaotic_ , and could still surprise his best friend after millenia of knowing each other. 

_So_ , thought Crowley,  _I shouldn't be that shocked. I should know better._

But still, the demon stood rooted on the spot in the middle of the back room, gaping like a fool, his brain refusing to process the latest intel.

Aziraphale, humming happily, picked up a second croissant from the box on the coffee table, and settled in his chair.

“Is everything all right, dear boy?”

Crowley nodded, and finally remembered how to move.

Keep cool, act natural. Don't make it a big deal.

He picked up his cappuccino mug, trying (and failing) not to look at the cardboard box.

He'd picked up the pastries only ten minutes ago, and the brioches were still warm.

However, Aziraphale had chosen a croissant.

Over a  _brioche_ .

Twice.

The demon sprawled on his couch, shaking his head in wonder. You thought you knew someone, and then something like  _this_ happened. This world was mad. Absolutely mad. Aziraphale's first choice was always brioche over croissants. Always. It was one of the constants of the universe.

The angel's voice interrupted his musings. “Are you sure you are fine, my dear?”

“Yeaaah...” drawled Crowley. “Hey, angel, I was wondering... what was the name of that little tavern in Cairo? The one with the cats?”

Aziraphale took a another bite of croissant, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I haven't been replaced by a doppelganger, Crowley.”

The demon nodded and took a gulp from his mug, relieved. Only his angel would know him well enough to answer this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next prompt is Memory, and I'm already on it. I intend to post it before midnight to CATCH UP ON MY SCHEDULE!!  
> (FYI, it's 9pm. So I better hurry and stop reading fics, ha ha^^)


	12. Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley didn't expect one of Hell's leaders to wait for them in the bookshop...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, man, I suffered SO MUCH to write that fic!  
> I wrote 1000 words the first day, and it was so -deleted- that I erased it all (which I NEVER do).  
> Then I wrote it all over again the second day, and erased 95% of it...  
> And finally, I woke up this morning and wrote this in one go (then got to work in a hurry to arrive on time).  
> I'm weird :D

Aziraphale was having a very good day.

First of all, he had _not_ sold his signed first edition of “A Heritage of Shadows”* to that very insistent customer this morning.

*If you are wondering how on earth Aziraphale could have a SIGNED first edition of this book, meet me in the end notes.

Second, the bakery still had some of those delicious little chocolate cakes, even if he got there after ten and they were usually sold out before nine (and he did not at all feel guilty about the _tiny_ miracle it _may_ have needed).

Then, he’d read in the newspaper there was this new Da Vinci exposition opening in a few weeks. Crowley would been delighted to hear it.

He slowly walked back home, enjoying the morning’s sun on his face, the chirping of birds hunting for crumbs outside the coffee shop, and waved through the butcher’s window to salute the old man. A familiar flash of red caught his attention. Crowley was chatting with the florist outside her shop. Aziraphale smiled. The demon had blended in pretty quickly after moving in in the bookshop. He’d reached a first name basis with most of the neighbors by now, the old charmer.

This was such a _nice_ morning.

“Hiya, angel,” greeted the demon, crossing the street to meet him on the bookshop’s doorstep, hands in his pockets and a wide grin on his face.

“Why, hello to you too, my dear. Did you fall off the couch? It isn’t even eleven in the morning, you know,” he teased.

Crowley merely chuckled. “Disappointed I’d deprive you of your morning’s silent reading? I can still take the Bentley and ride away to leave you your privacy, you know?”

The angel sighed dramatically. “Oh I am afraid I cannot have that, my dear. You are my burden to carry after all. I tremble to think of the temptations you could accomplish without my constant vigilance. I do need to keep an eye on you.”

“While eating cake,” snickered the demon, pointing at the bakery’s box.

“Why yes, Crowley. Thwarting requires an awful lot of energy,” deadpanned Aziraphale.

Both very pleased with themselves, they turned to the door.

Unfortunately, what promised to be an auspicious day turned sour the instant the angel’s fingers touched the bookshop’s door handle.

He froze. There was a demon in the shop.

Well, this wasn’t unusual, of course. Except...

“What’s wrong?” asked Crowley’s voice behind him. No need to turn to know he was frowning.

Without answering, Aziraphale grabbed the door handle and melded his spirit with the bookshop’s. How did a demon enter his home? The walls were warded.

No wards. Only feeble remains of the angelic barriers. And scattered among them, a demonic energy. Powerful and familiar…

Memories flooded his mind.

 _A bathtub._ _T_ _he screams of the tiny demon dissolving._ _A_ _sham of a_ _trial._ _H_ _ands_ _on his_ _his wing._ _Adam in Hell._

“Aziraphale?” pressed Crowley, “What’s wrong?”.

The angel turned, smiling brightly while discreetly sending soothing thoughts to the bookshop. The poor dear had no reason to feel ashamed. “Oh, nothing, really, only… do you… do you remember that one time someone entered the bookshop and you foolishly rushed in and almost fought a Duke of Hell?

“T’wasn’t foolish,” grumbled Crowley, “I would have won anyway.”

“If you say so. Well… the situation isn’t very different this time...”

Crowley reached out, mentally searching the building, then recoiled.

“Beelzebub?” he murmured, shell shocked. Aziraphale’s false smile wavered.

It only lasted a tenth of a second, but Crowley saw it. The raw vulnerability, the fear in his friend’s eyes, soon swept under a metaphorical rug as the angel squared his shoulders. Crowley knew he should have felt afraid himself, or at least worried. The last thing they needed to do now was to lose their tempers, not with such a powerful enemy this close.

He wasn’t afraid, though. He was bloody _furious_.

He had thought everything was finally back to normal. That Hell and Heaven would leave them be now, that they were finally, finally _safe_.

And then the Prince of Hell had to come, break into their house, and put that expression on the angel’s face.

He knew the last shreds of his sanity were rapidly snapping one after the other. There was a roar in his ears, and he welcomed the burning anger with wide arms.

Hell had hurt Aziraphale. Hunted him on Earth and almost destroyed him, lured him into their cells and tortured him, breaking his wing.

Well _not this time_ . If Beelzebub didn’t want to leave them alone, he would _make them_.

Aziraphale’s eyes widened as his friend hissed loudly, scales appearing on his face, nails sharpening and turning into claws.

“Crowley! Please keep your calm, my dear! They are way too strong for us!”

The demon’s only answer was another, louder hiss, as he pushed the angel away to access to the door.

“Oh, dear,” murmured Aziraphale, unfolding his ethereal body and following his friend inside, gathering Grace as fast as he could. He could feel Crowley’s demonic energy build up. He knew better than to try and stop his demon when he was in such a state.

Beelzebub was sitting on Aziraphale’s old armchair in the back room. They looked at the strange pair in the doorway with no small amount of boredom.

“Finally. I wazz starting to fall asleep,” they greeted them.

“What are you doing here?” asked Crowley in a voice that wasn’t human anymore.

Of course his former boss would have chosen _Aziraphale’s_ seat. They always had known how to make a lasting impression.

“I came to talk. Drop the horror show, I am not a human, Crawly. You aren’t impressing me.”

“Crowley,” corrected Aziraphale instinctively, assessing the situation.

He knew that somewhere, deep down inside of him, the vision of Beelzebub into his home was terrifying. The memories of pain, fear and despair were still there, right under the surface, but he had more pressing matters to think of right now. Like how to calm Crowley before he attacked, and how to defeat Beelzebub if it came to that.

The first one was maybe manageable. He sent a tendril of Grace in his friend’s direction, cautiously grazing the edge of his aura.

Crowley growled, ignoring him, all his attention on his former lord. “Talk? You want to _talk_ ? After what you’ve _done_?”

The Lord of the Flies rolled their eyes. “No need to be so dramatic. It wazz months ago, get over it already. Your angel seemzz fine,” they declared, eyeing Aziraphale over Crowley’s shoulder.

“He’s not _mine_ , he’s his own angel,” retorted the other, as automatically as Aziraphale had corrected his name. “And if you’re here for him I swear to Anyone I’ll-”

“Yes, yes, I got that already,” cut the Prince of Hell. “Can we cut the niceness and get to the point? I have a propozzition for you. For you two, actually.”

Aziraphale squinted his eyes. Maybe there wouldn’t be a fight, after all. This was good news.

“A proposition?” snarled Crowley, laughing darkly. “Are you fucking _serious_? Do you really think we will _listen_ to you?”

The angel cleared his throat. “Actually,” he started, “I think I would be amenable to-”

“ **No**!” hissed his friend, his head snapping to look at him. “No, you don’t!”

Aziraphale took in the terrifying fangs and claws, the skin that was fully covered in black scales by now, and the murderous aura. He pouted.

“Oh, well,” he only said primly, looking away. He fought the urge to cross his arms. He needed to keep ready to bolt if needed. “If you say so.”

“I do,” growled Crowley. “There’s nothing either of us want to hear from _them_.”

Beelzebub sighed. “You are very unreazonable, Crawly. I didn’t even break him. Look, he is standing besides you, ready to fight me. I should feel annoyed. I uzzually make a more lasting impression, but I am not really surprizzzed. You know it wazz nothing personal. I only needed him to lure our master’zz son.”

Aziraphale clenched his fists. “Do you really think that trying to kidnap Adam is something we would forgive that easily?”

 _And his name is Crowley_ , he added inwardly. They had to be doing it deliberately.

The Prince of Hell waved a dismissive hand. “I didn’t torture him. We don’t torture children. So there izz nothing to be angry at where it concernzz him.”

Aziraphale gaped. They really believed that, he realized. He had a lot to say about abduction and psychological trauma (not that he would _let_ one of those settle into Adam’s head), but he was too shocked to speak. It was obvious that for Beelzebub, as long as there were no lasting damages, everything was fine.

Crowley, used to Hell’s way of thinking, scoffed. “Yeah, right. Well _I’m_ angry. And I’m retired. So if it isn’t too much trouble, I invite you to _fuck off_ before I make you. There’s nothing for you here. No proposition, no offer, nothing. I don’t even want to talk about the bloody weather. Get. Out.”

Aziraphale regained his bearings in a blink, focusing on the petite silhouette in front of them. His first move would be to throw the nearest shelf at them. Then he would have to grab his letter opener and ignite it while Crowley-

“Very well. Send me a message through the uzzual channel if you ever change your mindzz,” declared the higher demon, walking casually to the door. “My offer still stands, Principality,” they added over their shoulder.

Crowley growled lowly at the sight of their retreating back. Not even walking backwards facing them. This was a deliberate insult. And what in Heaven did that last sentence _mean_?

He felt a warm hand gently taking his wrist. “Do not let them bait you, dear boy. I’d rather not fight today, please.”

Crowley tensed slightly, then nodded minutely, watching as the door closed on their visitor’s exit.

Aziraphale let go of his friend’s arm, tutted, and snapped his fingers with a frown. The box of cakes appeared on the coffee table, miraculously intact.

“What about some cake first, to cheer us up? I will make us some hot beverage later,” he declared brightly.

Shifting back to his more human corporation, Crowley carefully settled on the couch, watching his friend attentively. They would have to talk later, of course (that offer Beelzebub had talked about was worrying him). But for now, normal was the only road to follow. Aziraphale needed time to process his thoughts and emotion before a serious discussion.

The angel fidgeted for a few seconds, then squared his jaw and sat on his armchair with a resolute air. Crowley felt a rush of pride. Beelzebub had obviously chosen this place to wait them to play one of their mind tricks on the angel. But Aziraphale wouldn’t let the Lord of the Flies leave their imprint in this room. It was _his_ chair, and no one else’s.

 _Stubborn bastard_ , thought the demon fondly.

There was something he had to say before anything else, though.

“Ah… angel?”

Blue eyes met his questioningly.

“Sorry I snapped at you… didn’t mean to order you around like that...”

Aziraphale shook his head. “No need to apologize, dear. You are the expert in dealing with Hell, and you know Beelzebub very well. If you think I shouldn’t listen to them, then I shan’t.”

The demon nodded curtly. “I really think it. Never bargain with them, believe me, that’s their specialty. Now, what kind of cakes did you chose today?”

Aziraphale beamed. “The little chocolate ones!”

“Really? At this hour? You naughty angel, you used a miracle, didn’t you?”

“I am certain I do not see what you are implying, Crowley.”

“Yeah, right, I believe you,” laughed the demon.

* * *

In Tadfield, a little boy sighed in relief and focused back on his friends.

“What were you saying, Brian?”

Pepper huffed loudly. “If you’re not going to take it seriously, just say it, Adam!”

“I am! Of course I’m serious!”

“All right,” interrupted Brian, not willing to let these two start an argument. “So my brother told me the old mine is here, and the entry had to be somewhere in this direction. When one of us finds it, they whistle, and we start exploring, okay? The phantom is probably not far from the entry, because there is no one to scare inside.”

“Makes sense,” approved Wensley, checking his backpack for the last time. He was the only one to have thought of water and snacks, and was worried they wouldn’t have enough to last a month if the ghost trapped them. Brian ate an awful lot.

Adam nodded. “Let’s go, then. It will be _wicked_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank megzseattle for her patience^^
> 
> I have the best beta, honest. Here is one of our conversation about THIS ficlet:  
> "It's shit. I hate it. It's awful"  
> "What is it about? What is the prompt? Can I help? What's the plot?"  
> "Beelzebub is in the bookshop... Memory."  
> "... I think I will need a little more than that to understand the context :) ."  
> "Yeah, but, it sounds so stupid. Aziraphale is angry because... OH! THAT'S IT!!! OF COURSE IT'S NOT AZIRAPHALE! IT'S CROWLEY WHO'S ANGRY!!!"  
> "I'm... glad I could help?"
> 
> It's a miracle I didn't make her crazy this week-end :D
> 
> Next prompt is Unlucky and I WON'T promise to post it tomorrow or today because we all know by now that I will totally jinx it.  
> I'm working on it right now. It's a good writing day so far (much better than this week-end^^)*
> 
> *Not that my week-end was bad! It was only bad for writing. I spent my sunday with my oldest friend, watching series with pizza. It was Heaven (well, no... Heaven is crap... so it was Earth!!)
> 
> *Yes, Aziraphale has a signed first edition of "A heritage of shadows". He got it signed was the day it was released. Of course he knew the author. It's Aziraphale.
> 
> I am certain our angel and Peter O'Donnell would have been great friend. 😇


	13. Unlucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley's favourite bar-tender seems to be quite unlucky lately...  
> Maybe our boys are aware of the reason why?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to write this for so long!!!  
> Since the first story I wrote in the Treadmill, actualy.^^

Fred was having a stroke of bad luck, date-wise. Nothing serious, but he wasn’t used to it and started to wonder if he was the cause of it…

It had started about two months ago. There was this cute woman at the counter, who had a beautiful smile and very soft eyes. She seemed nice, something Fred always had been a sucker for, and if she was in her forties, he couldn’t care less. He’d always have a thing for older lovers anyway.

They’d talk between orders, and she’d smiled more and more as the evening advanced, which was good, because she looked like crying when she’d first entered.

Then Aziraphale had ordered a bottle of champagne, and he’d brought it at the table, had discussed a little with the angel’s friends (a nice American and her adorable husband) and had turned back to the bar to see the woman walking away with someone else.

Crowley, who’d been behind the counter to bring back some ice, patted him on the shoulder on his way back. “Rough, mate. Better luck next time.”

He hadn’t seen the guilty look that Aziraphale had shot him.

Fred was a positive sort of man. He’d been unlucky already, and perfectly knew you couldn’t please everyone. He also knew he was fun and educated enough to be considered “interesting”, had a nice silhouette, and a good heart.

He liked to have fun, even if he always had been searching for something permanent. And as much as the permanent bit was hard to find, he never had much trouble to find one-night-stands before. It was better than nothing and wouldn’t break his heart, for once.

And his job wasn’t a hindrance. You met a lot of single people in a pub. The only problem were the hours, and every time he had been lucky enough to have someone wait for his clock out time, Peter had told him to go early and had closed on his own.

But since that night, and that woman, it was like a jinx: every time someone seemed interested, they left without him. Sometimes alone, sometimes not… Fred honestly didn’t know which one was the more depressing.

Of course, anyone had a right to change their minds, but the universe was obviously taking great fun in thwarting him.

“I’ve been cursed!” he complained one night to Aziraphale, who choked on his wine.

“Naaah…” drawled Crowley, patting (a little too hard) his friend’s back. “You’re not, believe me.”

Fred smiled. “Sorry, I’m being ridiculous, I know it. It’s just that I seem to disgust everyone after thirty minutes of conversation. Am I… boring, lately? Did something change with me? You can tell me, if I’m being a jerk, I need to know.”

Crowley slowly turned to Aziraphale, who was looking with great interest at his glass.

“Is Fred being a jerk lately, angel?” he asked, an eyebrow raised alarmingly high.

“Of course not,” mumbled the book-seller, before getting up. “I think I will… go to the bathroom!”

“You do that,” approved Crowley ironically.

Fred got back to his dish-washing with a longing sigh. He knew these two were not a couple, romantically speaking, but he yearned for that kind of closeness. He had thought, in his twenties, that he would certainly find true love someday, find his other half, someone to share his life and grow old with. Someone to tease, and to share memories and private jokes with.

That dream had soon turned sour. Nice people, he had found out, didn’t always end up with their peers. He had been from bad partners to worse ones for a decade, before deciding to stop searching for love and settle on casual sex.

And now, all options seemed unavailable. Something was definitely wrong with him.

Still sitting on his stool, Crowley was watching him with a pout.

* * *

Aziraphale entered the storage room with a stormy expression. “All right! This is _enough_ now!” he erupted.

Surprised, Peter almost dropped the crate he was carrying. “Aziraphale? What’s wrong? Is there trouble? Do you need-“

“YES, there is trouble! YOU are the trouble, you stupid man!” hissed the angel, moving forward menacingly.

Peter took a step back. He’d known Aziraphale for twenty years and never had seen him this angry before. “What did I do?”

“I am giving up on you, Peter! I have been very patient with you, decided to leave you space and time, but your foolishness has to stop NOW!”

Peter, terrified, vaguely wondered if Aziraphale’s eyes had always been this clear. “What… what are you talking about?”

“Fred!” huffed Aziraphale, rolling his eyes. “Of course, I am talking about Fred! You are in love with him, and you are made for each other, so get a grip and ask him out, because I won’t ask Crowley to divert other people’s attentions any longer!”

Peter blinked. He was _certain_ he had been discreet. “ I have no idea what you’re talking about, Aziraphale. Even if that was right, and it’s _not_ , I am his boss. And I am way older than him, and… and that’s not your business anyway!“

“Old? Poppycock! You are both children! _You_ certainly act like one. If you are ready to let happiness escape you because of such stupid arguments, then maybe you don’t deserve him!”

With a last glare, the angel turned on his heels. “I am not talking to you anymore!” he yelled angrily before heading out.

Fred startled when the door slammed at the other end of the room. Both he and Crowley watched as Aziraphale stormed out, making a beeline to the exit.

“Heading home?” asked Crowley from his seat.

“YES! I am _most_ displeased with that man!”

The exit door slammed even louder, and Crowley finished his drink in one go.

“I think,” he said with a smirk, “that your boss annoyed my friend. Better go too and cheer him up. But give me a whiskey first, mate. I’m dying for a good Hibiki.”

Flabbergasted, Fred obeyed. What in _Hell_ was happening here?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See? I told you in the comments that I would write more about Fred's love life.  
> In case you're wondering, Peter never asked Aziraphale to steer folks away from Fred. The angel knows they would be great and very happy together. He is a being of love, after all, he can sense kindred spirits.
> 
> It's only the beginning though... I may write my two immortal boys in a queerplatonic relationship, but it doesn't mean I can't appreciate a good slowburn^^  
> We will see more about the Treadmill :D


	14. Food

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a nice morning, but an old acquaintance is about to disturb the bookshop's silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The return of Mr. Fitzpatrick, everyone! I love that man...

With a pleased sigh, Aziraphale carefully placed the feather he always used as a bookmark in the tome he was studying and stretched before standing up.

A look in the back room confirmed his hunch. The bunch of blankets on the couch were groaning and moving. Yes, his demon was about to wake up. Smiling, he headed for the stairs. Today would be sunny and very hot, not something he was fond of, but Crowley craved sun and heat, and after such a dreadful spring the least the poor dear deserved was a nice day out.

Maybe they could go for a picnic? wondered the angel, excited, as he carefully prepared his friend’s cappuccino, with one sugar and extra foam, as always. Not that he would _say_ it, of course. No self-respecting demon would reckon they liked _extra foam_ (or sugar) in their hot drink.

They could make a trip to Tadfield and picnic with the children… Brian had been abroad with his family these last two weeks and Aziraphale was eager to see him again, and make sure his blessing was still effective. You never knew with France. Surviving in Paris could wear down a good blessing in no time (didn’t he know _that_ ).

Heading down with his and Crowley’s mugs, he didn’t turn at the jingle of the bell..

“I will be there in just a minute,” he shouted (politely) in the entryway's direction, entering the back room to press the cappuccino in the greedy hand that emerged from the blankets.

“Mthnks, n’gel…”

“You are more than welcome, my dear. I have a customer, I will be back in a jiffy.”

An undecipherable groan answered him, followed by a loud gulp.

Taking a sip of tea, Aziraphale searched for his customer with a pleasant smile. He was in such a good mood he would even accept to consider selling something. One of the thirty tomes of “Angels and Demons” Crowley had offered him as an April fool’s joke for example.*

There was no customer, realised the angel as he took in the sight that waited him in the entryway.

“Mr. Fitzpatrick?” his surprise quickly let room for warryness. “Is everything all right?”

“Ach, no. It's awful, Mr. Fell! T's the end of the world! I'd better throw myself in the Thames!”

Aziraphale blinked, more worried by the second. Immediately, he thought of the worst, and extended his Grace to search the apartment over the butcher's shop. No trace of the old man's granddaughter. Bitting his lip, the angel mentally flew to her girlfriend's place. Here was dear Rebecca, safely curled on the sofa in front of the television. Thank the Lord.

Relieved, he turned back to his visitor. “What is wrong, dear friend? Tell me, maybe I can be of some help?”

The old man sighed heavily. “It's the end, at's what it is, Mr. Fell. I don't know what I'll do now. I think I'll close the shop.”

This time, dread suffused the angel. Mr. Fitzpatrick was adamant about never retiring, and that last sentence meant the old butcher was trully overwhelmed. Squaring his shoulders, he rounded the old man and locked the door, then turned the sign to _closed._

“Now, now, just calm down, my dear. Tell me what is happening to you this instant,” he asked, taking the older (well... olderish) man by the elbow to help him sit in a chair.

He mingled a slight angelic miracle to his touch, and felt his neighbour relax a little.

Whoever had put the man in this dreadful state, thought the Principality, was going to _pay_ for it. Mr. Fitzpatrick wasn't only a nice, strongminded man who never had learned to mince his words. He was also his oldest neighbour. And by that, it meant Aziraphale had known him for the best part of sixty years, talking to him almost every day and spending one evening a week in his company by the fireplace in the back room, drinking whiskey in teacups. The butcher was the closest acquaintance he ever had in his entire existence.**

“It's Beck!” wailed Mr. Fitzpatrick. “She's abandoning me!”

The angel didn't react, standing still as stone for a while. Then, once he'd been certain he'd heard correctly, he asked politely “I beg your pardon?”

“Beck is leaving me!” repeated the old man, a little louder.

He was met with a blank stare. “Leaving you.”

“Yes!”

“... I guess she is moving to the other side of the world, and never wants to speak to you again?”

“What? No! She's moving with Tessa! They're saying they're engaged! _Engaged_ , Mr. Fell! Do you realise? That's insane! She can't do this!”

“Oh, right,” retorted Aziraphale in a clipped tone, standing up and crossing his arms. “So your twenty-three year old granddaughter is moving ONE mile away and the world comes to an end? And I thought _Crowley_ was dramatic!”

“Wazzat, angel? What did I do? I hope it's awful,” asked the demon's interested voice in his back.

“Rebecca and Theresa are engaged, dear boy.”

“Okay. 'Bout time, I suppose. What does it have to do with me?”

“But they can't marry!” erupted Mr. Fitzpatrick.

Angel and demon exchanged a glance. They both knew the old man very well, and were more than aware that he was nothing but supportive of same sex marriage. So they chose their course of action in a heartbeat.

“Why, of course they can! They have been able to marry these last six years, if I am correct,” answered Aziraphale.

“I'd never thought you would be against it, Fitzpatrick,” added Crowley, taking a lazy sip of his mug. “So you're _that_ kind, hey? Guess you never really know someone after all...”

The old man spluttered, making both immortal entities smirk.

“It's not about that! They're too _young_! They only met each other last year!”

“Oh, I understand that,” Aziraphale chimed in with a knowing look. “I once met someone who'd decided to marry at nineteen. With a girl two years younger, and that he'd only met four months before. So many people told him he was doing a mistake, if I recall correctly...”

Mr. Fitzpatrick stilled. “That... t'was different.”

“How so?” asked the demon, chuckling.

“T'was... well, it...”

“I believe you are being quite ridiculous, my dear,” declared the angel. “And we all know dear Rebecca will never abandon you. Why, I think she will be even more present than before once she will move away. She is awfully worried about your health, after all.”

“Surprise raid in your liquor cabinet to check it's empty, calls every single hour to check if you took your medicine...” Crowley recited.

“I am surprised she didn't ask you to move in with them already. Why, you seem so lost I have half a mind to suggest them exactly that!” added Aziraphale, raising a challenging eyebrow.

The butcher looked from one to the other forlornly, then sighed in defeat.

“Ach, you're a hard man, Mr. Fell. At least offer a dying man his last whiskey!”

“I think it's more of a champagne occasion,” murmured Crowley, clearly enjoying himself immensely.

“I don't want nae soda! Whiskey's the trick! I need it, Mr. Crowley, my little girl is going away...”

“You always have to let them go at some point, Fitzpatrick,” chuckled the demon, patting the old man's shoulder.

With a happy wriggle, Aziraphale looked out the window in the direction of dear Theresa's apartment.

Oh, he should offer them that _splendid_ painting he'd see them admiring at the gallery last week!

But first, he had to invite them to celebrate. A nice cake from his favourite patisserie, and some _actual_ champagne, evidently. This afternoon would be perfect, since it was both of the girl's day off. Nothing fancy, only three different chocolate layers, and of course little marzipan roses to decorate, he decided. But nothing more. Crowley had told him he tended to get carried away in these occasions.

  
  


*This had _not_ been a good idea. Aziraphale was always one to appreciate a good joke, but offering him thirty wrapped books only to have him discover they were not only all the same, but also one he already knew and hadn’t like was NOT a good move. The angel had only stopped brooding once Crowley had promised never to joke about books _ever_ again.

*Mortal acquaintance, of course.


	15. Holiday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the beginning of summer holidays at Tadfield. The Them are celebrating with Adam's Godfathers.

Raphael’s appearance in the middle of the backroom got quite unnoticed. With a start, she realized she’d arrived in the middle of a war.

“Don’t do this! You will kill us all!” yelled Aziraphale, his face so red with anger it seemed like it was going to explode.

“I know what I’m doing! You’ll only get hurt if you stand in the way! _Move_ , you stupid grandma!” screamed back the dark haired child that was nose to nose with the Principality, not afraid in the slightest. They were both gripping each other’s collar, and the sight had Raphael froze on the spot.

Her hands twitched. She couldn’t let Aziraphale hurt an innocent human offspring, and it seemed to be heading this way.

The Principality gasped. “Grandma? _Grandma_? How dare you talk in such an insulting way to Jodranir, Guardian of the Tree, Priestess of-”

“Yes, yes, we knoooow!” the boy rolled his eyes. Raphael’s breath itched. That human child obviously had a death wish.

“Could you two stop acting like children and get back to the _real_ fight?” sighed the Antichrist. “I’m bleeding out, here, in case you’d forgotten.”

This at least had Raphael regain control over her corporation. A someone was wounded and needed _healing_.

“You are _hurt_?” she shot out.

Four humans, an angel and a demon startled and turned to her.

“Raphael?” asked Aziraphale, letting go of his enemy’s collar. “What are you doing here? Is everything all right?”

“Where are you hurt?” asked the Archangel hurriedly, touching Adam’s head and getting her healing abilities ready.

“I’m fine,” sighed the boy. “You’re really rude to interrupt, you know.”

“Normal people _knock_ , usually,” added the girl sitting on his right, munching something very loudly.

“Pepper! Don’t eat all the crisps!” snapped the dark-haired boy.

Crowley, sitting at the other end of the table, chin on the palm of his hand, sighed. “Can we please focus, everyone? Wensley’s freezing spell won’t last forever.”

Aziraphale and Pepper gasped in unison. “But Crowley! Raphael is here! Surely we can consider the events on hold until she leaves!”

The little girl nodded furiously, fists clenched at her sides. Yes, Mister Crowley! That’s unfair!”

“Oh! Oh, excuse me, _of course_ we can put it on hold!” scoffed the demon. “Like in _real_ life, uh? Can you put events on bloody _hold_ when it’s convenient to you in real life?” mocked the demon.

He was met with a very pointed angelic stare. Adam chuckled.

“Oh, bother,” mumbled Crowley. “Game’s on hold, everyone! Raid to the kitchen allowed, take whatever you want, except the wine! I’ll start over in five minutes, whether you’re back or not!”

Pepper, Brian and Adam scrambled to their feet and rushed to the stairs in a stampede. Aziraphale and Crowley turned to their visitor.

Wensleydale, still sitting on his chair, crossed his arms over his chest and huffed loudly.

“So, what’s up, Rafa?” asked Crowley with a toothy grin, very much aware that the Archangel hated nicknames.

Raphael sighed heavily. “I had no idea I was arriving at a bad time… but there is something I need to talk to you about.”

“Is it _urgent_?” asked Wensleydale, getting up to face her, clearly annoyed.

“I… what?” answered the bewildered Archangel.

“Can’t it wait? Is it a matter of life or death?” pressed the child, frowning.

Raphael took a step back. “No. It can wait, of course.”

“Very well. Because this campaign had taken thirteen weeks. _Thirteen weeks_ , madam! And we will not interrupt it for anything else than _very_ urgent matters! Now if you would be so kind, we have an Elf overlord to dethrone.”

Blinking in confusion, the archangel looked at Aziraphale. The Principality shrugged.

“He is right. It has been a very long quest, and we have fought a lot already. We cannot abandon now. I am sure you understand, my dear. Now be a lamb and leave us two more hours, will you? You will be more than welcome to take part in our next adventure, of course...”

“No, she won’t,” protested Crowley, earning a pout from his best friend.

“Come on now, dear boy, surely you do not think that.”

“I do, and I’m the one deciding who’s in and who’s out. Unless you want to spend next campaign as the game master?”

Wensley’s eyes widened. “Oh, _no way_! Mister Crowley knows how to do all the voices!”

Aziraphale sighed sadly. “I am sorry, Raphael. The Dungeon Master’s word is absolute. Off you go, now, before the children are back with food supplies.”

Crowley grinned like a shark. “You really should hurry, Rafa. There’s a fight to end and you don’t want to get in the way, believe me.”

“Oh, yes, you do not want to antagonize Pepper,” said Aziraphale hurriedly. “She may appear human, but she has been raised by orcs, you know.”

* * *

Raphael reappeared in Heaven’s hallway and heaved a sigh. She already knew she had almost no chance to decide Aziraphale to help her with her problem, and bothering him in the middle of… whatever _this_ had been, wouldn’t have been wise.

She would have to wait a few hours before showing them Dagon’s letter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Crowley and Aziraphale are playing D&D, because of course they are, since the 70's.


	16. Through the Years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale is anxious. To help him relax a little, Crowley starts reminiscing about one of their old adventures.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Here is the next prompt!  
> I hope you're all having a great week-end!

Crowley watched with a frown as his friend went to the window for the seventh time in the last hour. He didn’t like to see Aziraphale stressed, and hadn’t seen him that flustered since Armageddon.

He closed his book loudly, making the angel startle, and grimaced at the sight. “T’s only me.”

Aziraphale clasped his hands to prevent them from wriggling, and gave him a waxy smile. “I was merely surprised. How is your book?”

Crowley squinted his eyes in answer, conveying a silent _“We’re going to address the elephant in the room and you won’t change the subject, angel.”_ Having put his glasses off and dropped them on the coffee table hours ago helped a great deal with non verbal communication, but he was fairly certain his friend would have gotten the message anyway.

Aziraphale heaved a sigh. “Raphael has not came back.”

“No, she hasn’t.” Crowley didn’t add _“so what?”_ or _“who cares?”_ because he already knew the answers to these questions. So Aziraphale was worried, and Aziraphale cared, and there wasn’t a lot he could do except go with the flow. Raphael wasn’t one to arrive late. Way too serious for her own good. And unfortunately, Crowley couldn’t just ignore her absence. She had helped Aziraphale an awful lot by ordering Heaven to leave him alone. He wished he had this kind of backup in Hell.

Anyway, he was indebted to the Archangel, now, like it or not.

“Did you try to pray?” he asked with a sigh of his own.

It was a good sigh, in his opinion. Just bored enough to convey annoyance, and a touch of dramatic eye-roll to add how little he cared, and how he was only having this conversation because the angel’s pacing was interfering with his reading.

Aziraphale, the selfish prick, didn’t even catch on to it. “I did. She is not answering. I really don’t like that...” he murmured, and the demon frowned again.

“Why don’t we give her until tomorrow? She’s got a lot on her plate, what with all her colleague's work to do… I’m sure she’s only a little late. Nothing to worry about.”

The angel nodded, fidgeting with his waistcoat’s buttons, making Crowley grit his teeth to swallow the _“Stop doing that!”_ he wanted to bark every time he saw the motion. He was fairly certain yelling at Aziraphale to stop feeling nervous wouldn’t work very well.

“Yes. Yes, of course, you are right. I will… make us some tea.”

The demon groaned in agreement. Not that he cared for tea right this second, but the angel had a very English approach to every metaphorical bump in the road, and tea was the first answer to each and every one of them, be it a delay in mail delivery or being abducted by highwaymen for ransom (that one had been very funny).

That was a thought. Tea would occupy the angel’s hand, and recalling memories could take care of his mind before it started spiraling in anguish. Crowley yawned, stretched like a cat, and got up in a movement no human body could have possibly emulated. He followed his friend up the stairs and into the kitchen.

“Remember that time in Japan, with the fox?” he asked with a smile.

He knew the angel remembered. Of course he did. It had been one of their wildest, funniest adventure, and nobody got hurt for once. Even a millennia later the memory was vivid in Crowley’s mind. Him, leading a bunch of bedraggled, abandoned teens, teaching them to earn a living (ok, attack coaches traveling through the woods. Semantics…).

And the little princess they had captured, sent by her father to marry a man thrice her age for politics. They had wanted to ask for a ransom at first, but the little thing seemed terrified at the prospect of going back either way, and since she wasn’t even bothered by Crowley’s sad bunch (or eyes), it was kind of telling.

So they kept her, of course, and she’d more than pulled her weight. Until Heaven sent an angel to retrieve her and assure the alliance took place. Thank Someone the angel had been Aziraphale.

Aziraphale’s hand froze over the teakettle, then the angel chuckled. “How could I forget? It certainly was entertaining. I feel a little sorry for the poor creature, though...”

“Don’t,” cut Crowley with a laugh. “It got a long and happy life in a big park, with as much food as it wanted and several humans devoted to it and calling it “Queen”. I don’t think that’s a terrible bargain. The bloke was even proud to end up with an _enchanted_ fiance, so all’s well that ends well, right?”

“Yes, I know that. I do not like to deprive one of God’s creature of their freedom, that is all. But in the end, it was for the best.”

“Well, better the fox than the girl,” mumbled the demon. “I wonder what happened to her afterwards, sometimes.”

His tea forgotten, Aziraphale turned to him, face lighting up. “Oh but I do know! I ran into her five decades later! She took the lead of your boys once you had to move away, and they founded a village not far from the woods where you were operating. I blessed the place. It was a nice village.”

Crowley spluttered. “You could have _told_ me!”

“But I didn’t see you for almost a _century_ after that, and there were so many things happening through the years… it slipped my mind.”

“Slipped your… that’s the first thing you should have thought of!” complained Crowley.

His friend tilted his head. “If I remember correctly, the first thing I thought was _“My, if that isn’t Crowley! What a pleasant surprise!_ _I was getting rather bored and I was dearly hopping to run into him soon._ _”_

Crowley crossed his arms and pouted, delighted. “Flattery will get you nowhere, angel.”

Aziraphale smiled sweetly. “Ah, but my _dear_ Crowley, flattery is lying. As an angel of the Lord, I can only speak the truth.”

The demon gasped, put one hand dramatically over his heart, and looked at the ceiling with wide eyes.

“What are you looking at?” wondered the angel with a twinkle in his eyes, like he didn’t already know the answer.

Crowley shrugged, still squinting his eyes at the ceiling.“Lightning and thunder, mostly. Either She’s slipping or you’re the most disgusting teacher’s pet I’ve ever met.”

Aziraphale tutted and pressed a cup of tea (smelling suspiciously like Ceylon and whiskey) in his demon’s hand. “I am fairly certain the Almighty has more pressing matters to take care of than playing referee in one of our little arguments.”

“We’re way too entertaining to interrupt anyway,” joked Crowley, taking a sip.

They were both right, of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this story takes place a few hours after the D&D one. We will get to Dagon's letter... very soon.  
> If you wonder if it has something to do with Beelzebub’s visit a few prompts ago, I'll answer like Dirk Gently "everything is connected"^^  
> Yes, I'm going somewhere with all this!


	17. Far Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale are about to find out what is wrong with Beelzebub.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made you wait, I know... but there's finally some answers!

The sound of incoming Grace had Crowley’s head snap to attention. Aziraphale, having sensed the disturbance from the kitchen, rushed down the stairs, a plate of cheese in one hand, a cup of cocoa in the other.

“Raphael!” exclaimed both entities, one in anger, the other in relief.

“The _fuck_ have you been? We have a life, you know! I intended to go out tonight, and here I am, stuck here because of a stupid angelic jackass!” snarled the demon, snapping his fingers to miracle his sunglasses on his face. No way he would appear _glad_.

Aziraphale, not bothered by appearing cool or detached, immediately fussed over the archangel. “Oh, my dear fellow, I was so dreadfully worried! Are you quite all right?”

Raphael smiled tightly. “I am… fine. But I need to talk to you two.”

Crowley grimaced, sitting straighter than usual. Aziraphale put his plate and mug on the counter. “What is happening?”

The archangel looked from Crowley to Aziraphale in anguish. Then she closed her eyes. “Beelzebub is missing. They’ve disappeared.”

A long silence stretched, and when she opened her eyes again, it was to meet a shell-shocked expression on Aziraphale’s face, and a very blank stare from Crowley.

“This is ridiculous,” declared Aziraphale finally, his right hand fluttering about as if it wanted to clutch something. “They already tried that. Do they really think it will work a second time?”

“I think this time it’s the truth,” declared Raphael seriously. “Dagon sent me a letter. Asked me to listen to her. Offered to come to Heaven to talk.”

Aziraphale gasped. Crowley snarled. “Heaven? Dagon? That’s the worst bluff I ever heard.”

“She did, though. She came. That’s why I couldn’t come here sooner. I was debriefing her,” explained the Archangel with a tired shrug.

Aziraphale shot a look to his friend. Even with the sunglasses, he knew Crowley was squinting his eyes. “So you have the Lord of the Files in Heaven’s prisons?” asked the demon.

“For now, yes. Of course that cannot be indefinite. I will let her go once I made sure she is telling the truth. It may be a trap, after all.”

“No, you _think_?” barked Crowley with dry humor. “What does she want? Let me guess: Aziraphale to come to Hell to _discuss_.”

“I told you already, I think this isn’t bluff this time. And of course I would never ask any of you to enter Hell. Dagon didn’t want anything specific, only my help. I think she doesn’t know what else to do...”

“Why would you help her? Why on Earth would you even believe her?” snarled Crowley. “She kidnapped Adam! An innocent child, Raphael! Why did you even listen to her? Let her rot in jail!”

“Yes, Raphael,” declared Aziraphale calmly, looking at his hands. “Why did you listen to her? Why are you here?”

“Because a demonic seer saw Michael fight Beelzebub for their place, and saw Michael win. Of course it could happen tomorrow or in a very far future. That’s why Beelzebub came here, to talk to you. Is it true? Did they come?”

Crowley shrugged. “They did, we kicked them out. I don’t even know why they would come to us in the first place after everything they did.”

“Not to _us_ ,” murmured Aziraphale, frowning, eyes unfocused. “to _you_ , Crowley. They wanted to talk to you. I think they reckoned your particular way of thinking could be of use to them.”

“What particular way of thinking?” asked the demon, incensed.

“Out of the box. Clever. Cunning,” provided the angel, still thinking furiously.

Crowley nodded, mollified. “Oh. Well, yeah... Anyway, it’s not our problem.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Raphael… I am sorry, but we… I am not sure we can be of help to you.”

The Archangel shrugged. “I expected it, and I understand. I won’t bother you any longer.”

“Will you try to find them?” asked Crowley, surprisingly gently.

“No. I cannot leave Heaven, especially if Hell is about to undergo a change of power.”

The two friends watched as Archangel disappeared in front of them without another word.

“Well, that sucked,” declared Crowley, sending his sunglasses clattering on the table. He hated his former boss and couldn’t care less if they lived or died, not after what they had done to Aziraphale, but it was sad to see Raphael in this state. Even after all this time, the Archangel cared about Beelzebub. They had been very close as angels. They did everything together. Except, of course, Fall. Beelzebub had never forgiven their sister for refusing to follow.

Aziraphale didn’t answer, looking out the window.

“Don’t think about it, angel,” warned the demon. “Don’t you fucking put it into your head to help again. It’s not our business.”

“Isn’t it, though?” murmured his friend.

Crowley growled. “What the _fuck_ are you doing, Aziraphale? After everything that already happened? You can’t be serious! Don’t tell me you’re considering it. I know Raphael’s your friend, but even she understands that we don’t want to help!”

“I know, my dear. You are right, of course. I will not help Raphael, nor Beelzebub.”

Crowley frowned. He knew that tone of voice. It wasn’t the _“you were right”_ one. It was the _“I am going to try to change your mind”_ one.

Aziraphale turned to face him, and the demon recoiled instantly. “Don’t. I don’t want to hear you. Whatever it is, the answer’s _no_. You hear me?”

“Crowley. Please listen to me. I promise you I will only say it once. If you do not agree, I will never talk about it again. But I have to explain why I think we should _consider_ taking a part in this.”

“No,” hissed Crowley, eyes completely yellow.

“I will _never_ mention it again, I swear...”

“I said no! I don’t want you to make promises you won’t keep, Aziraphale.”

The angel looked hurt, which was never a good thing to see. “But my dear, I intend to honor that promise.”

“Then that’s even worse. I don’t want you to promise to shut up. If I don’t agree with you, I’ll say it. And you’ll do the same. That’s how it always had worked. There’s nothing you can say that will make me change my mind anyway, so do your worst, I’m all ears.”

Aziraphale blushed slightly, then smiled. “Oh. Oh, I… I guess I was a little silly. It is just that... I know you do not want to think about helping Beelzebub after...”

“After they tortured you? Yeah, good guess. To be honest I thought it would put kind of a damper on it for both of us. So, why are you thinking about it?”

“Because, my dear, Beelzebub wasn’t happy,” answered the angel seriously.

Crowley blinked, and sat straight. “Whot?”

“They weren’t enjoying themselves as they tortured me. It was purely… professional. Not to revel in my pain, not solely to make me suffer. They had a goal. And it was the same at your trial.”

“My trial? What the fuck was the same at my trial?” Crowley was feeling completely lost.

“They weren’t particularly happy to sentence you to death. More bored. They wanted to make an example, that was obvious, but again, there was no pleasure in killing you. They were cold, detached.”

“They’re _always_ cold, angel. That’s not a quality. Certainly not worth saving anyone, detachment.”

Aziraphale bit his lip. “Yes. But _Michael_ was.”

Crowley blinked again. Then grimaced to convey how little sense this entire conversation was making to him.

The angel fidgeted with the chain of his pocket watch. “She was happy, Crowley. When she delivered that Holy Water… she was so _gleeful_. You should have seen her face. She was delighted, watching me… watching _you_ , as she poured the means to your destruction into that bathtub. And she took her time, she relished every second of it. Michael takes pleasure in watching others suffer.”

Crowley waited, but apparently that was it. That was the big speech. Nothing really mind-blowing, if you asked him. Archangels always had been wankers, after all, even if Raphael was a little more okay than the others.

“So?” he finally asked.

“So,” answered Aziraphale, frowning slightly, “Do you really want Michael to rule over Hell? Do you want her to be in charge? Or the cold, logical Lord that will never be driven by their emotions? Beelzebub has always been the only one to understand your schemes. They knew how clever your way was. They can be reasoned with.”

Crowley knew he should answer something as soon as possible. Something like _“Why do you want to reason with them? We’re out of the game, you and I! We’re on our own side!”_. But the truth was… the truth was Aziraphale had a point. A fucking big point, at that.

They were on Humanity’s side, and Humanity could very well do without a bloody psychopath in the lead Down Below.

“Shit,” he murmured, disgusted. Aziraphale addressed him a sad little smile, and that was kind of heartbreaking.

Why was retirement giving him the feeling he’d never worked so hard before?

For a moment, both of them just eyed each other in desolation, then the Principality grimaced as something sharp stabbed his ankle, and he looked down apologetically at the little mouse sitting on his left foot, reaching out to retrieve the plate of cheese. “So sorry, Algernon, dearest. Here is your treat.”

“Don’t feed it if it bites you, Aziraphale!” growled Crowley, feeling his heart lighten a little at the stupid show.

“But he was hungry, my dear! I am a little snippy myself when feeling peckish.”

Crowley huffed. “Yeah, try biting me next time you want me to drive you to your favorite sushi place, see how it goes.”

Aziraphale put the plate down, then looked at his friend questioningly.

Crowley sighed in surrender. “Yeah… call Raphael. But tell her she’ll owe us _big time_!”

“Oh, she won’t be the only one to owe us this time,” murmured the angel, wondering what kind of non-aggression contract he could have the Prince of Hell sign once they help secure their throne.

“I’ll be the one writing it,” declared Crowley, as if reading his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tomorrow's prompt is "wayward", a word I always loved.^^  
> There will be some action!  
> Angst? Probably.  
> Fluff? hmmm maybe not right now.  
> Humor? Of course!!  
> Happy ending? Garanteed^^


	18. Cursed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is always the one doing the grocery shopping...  
> There is a good reason to that.

That morning, upon waking up, Crowley noticed two things. Three, if you counted the mug pressed onto his fingers as soon as he reached out, but that was expected and didn’t need noticing.

One: Aziraphale wasn’t wearing his bow-tie. He was wearing his old tartan scarf instead. Two, there was a long list in his hand.

“Oh, hello, my dear. I do hope you slept well. I was on my way out and intended to put a little spell on your coffee to keep it warm. You woke up _just_ at the right time!”

The angel bounced on his heels happily. He was wearing his long overcoat. And _no bow-tie._

“Whryugoin?” managed Crowley between two sips of coffee, mesmerized. Where was that freaking bow-tie? Was it really Aziraphale? Did he wake up in another dimension?

“To the Smithsonian institute. An old book has been found, Crowley. A very old one!”

Oh, that explained the angelic joy overflowing the place. Had Crowley been a little less attuned to his friend’s Grace, he would be feeling very uncomfortable and probably get some burns. It also explained the lack of bow-tie. Aziraphale had that strange rule about not wearing it in America, because “it wasn’t in fashion there”. There was a lot to answer to that.

“Need a lift?” mumbled the demon, fumbling for his sunglasses.

“I have a taxi waiting,” answered his friend, apologetic. “I really thought you wouldn’t wake up that early.”

Crowley pouted. A _taxi_. Bentley would be insulted. “Why are they calling you?” he yawned.

“Oh, I have been considered an expert for a little while… hum… since, you know… the incident a few years ago in Armenia,” mumbled the angel, looking away innocently.

Crowley grinned. That had been a great day out and he remembered it vividly. “You mean that time when we got sloshed and visited the Metanadaran museum and you started to spell check the manuscripts out loud, then yelled that one of them was fake and got us evicted?”

The angel pouted. “I was right. It was a fake. Anyway, that woman was there, and she’s the Smithsonian curator. She checked, and realized I was, of course, right, then tried to find me to ask me questions.”

“Clever girl,” approved Crowley, always one for asking questions himself.

“She tracked me down to my hotel that day, and after a little rough start, we became… kind of friends.”

The demon hissed in his mug. Friends, really? _Another_ one? Why would Aziraphale need other friends? Stupid humans. Thank Someone they never lasted for more than a century.

“She called me this morning to ask me to come and help her with the discovery. It is a language no one appears to know!”

Aziraphale hadn’t looked that happy in at least a week. That was always a good sight.

“I’m sure you’ll remedy that soon enough. All right, have fun. What’s the scrap of paper?”

Aziraphale handed it over with a beam. “Grocery list! A very extensive one.”

With a groan, Crowley sat up and took the list. He blinked at it for a moment, then looked up. “Sushi rice?”

“Oh, yes, it is a very specific type of rice. I need that precise brand.”

“Thought you said sushi was something only experts should be making,” murmured the demon.

“It is!” answered his friend with a serious nod. “But you never know, it could be useful someday.”

“What the Heaven is Bündnerfleisch? And Brillat-Savarin?”

“Oh, just a most delicious dried meat, and a marvelous cheese,” answered Aziraphale with a longing sigh.

“Not sure I’ll find any of those at the local store, angel,” chuckled Crowley, his smile widening as he kept reading.

“Come now, dear boy, of course they will. They have _everything_ ,” reminded Aziraphale with a half angelic, half bastard smile, before picking up his suitcase and heading to the door.

“Mind how you go, angel.”

“So do you, Crowley. I will call to warn you of my return.”

“Take your time. And some books. I don’t want you to annoy me every other hour on the phone like last time because you feel bored.”

“I did think about taking some reading this time,” declared the angel haughtily, “so I will not _annoy_ you at all. Far from me the idea of being a _bother_ to you!”

Crowley chuckled as the door to the bookshop slammed.

A loud roar outside had him shoot to his feet and snap his sunglasses on his nose and his clothes freshly pressed. Then he headed out, preparing for the worst.

Yes, Bentley was furious. The demon raised his hands placatingly. “I know, baby, I knoooow! It’s not my fault, I swear! He called a taxi while I was sleeping.”

A low rumble answered him.

“But you and I are going to have fun today, I promise. Look! Grocery list. You love groceries.”

Bentley didn’t answer. She did love groceries. But the angel taking a freaking taxi right in front of her still hurt.

She’d memorized the wanker’s plate. Someday, she would cross his path again, and then there would be a _reckoning_.

“Come now, love,” purred Crowley, tempting. “I know it’s a hard blow, but I’ll drive you to the seaside later. Okay?”

The driver’s door unlocked.

“That’s my girl.”

The parking lot was half full, which meant the store would be full of spectators. With a grin, Crowley parked, patted Bentley’s hood, and sauntered inside, chuckling darkly at the large advertising on the front of the store.

_We have everything you want._

The cashier looked up, saw him, and her eyes widened.

“Hiya, Bea,” offered the demon, heading towards the cheese section.

The woman crossed her arms over her chest to glare at him, then reached out to her phone and called the manager.

“Mr. Crowley is here, Mr. Smith.”

It only took twelve minute this time before humans started to get out and go back to their cars in a hurry. Bentley looked in interest as a woman strapped her toddler in his seat in a hurry, then let out a cry of dismay, unstrapped him, ran to the car nearby where a man was looking in horror at the tiny human he was holding by the hand, and proceeded to a very awkward exchange of offspring.

Her father, decided Bentley, seemed to be having a great time.

“No, I don’t care if you can order the rice and have it by tomorrow, you idiot! I want it now! I need my sushi rice right _now_! Look, it’s on my list! Right here!! Give me my rice!” the red haired man yelled at the cashier who looked a lot like she was going to cry.

The long file of waiting customer heaved a collective sigh of relief at the sight of a man in a blue suit heading their way. The little badge proclaiming “manager” was a balm to their souls.

“Mr. Crowley,” greeted the man, a little too sharply for customer service. The man in sunglasses didn’t spare him a glance, still towering over the checkout girl.

“Mr. Smith. Your stupid employee is useless as always. Doesn’t even know where the good brand of sushi rice is.”

“You perfectly know that we don’t have it at the moment. If you let me order it it would be available by-”

“But you have _everything_ I want,” interrupted the demon, wide eyed behind his dark lenses, his voice shocked. “I want sushi rice, you must have it, right?”

“Mr. Crowley, be reasonable. I can have anything you want _by tomorrow_.”

“Aw, come on, John, that’s not true. Last time, you didn’t have my cereals the next day!”

Mr. Smith clenched his fists. His name wasn’t John, but of course that damned Crowley knew that already. “The brand didn’t exist anymore!” he reminded.

“What about my cheese? I need some fancy cheese, it’s written here. Do you have it? Course you do, who am I kidding? You have _everything_. Care to lead me to it?”

Mr. Smith sighed. He really only cared about one thing: profits. His employees and his neighborhood were the last of his concerns. And he had been convinced that money would flow in easily here...One of his friends had told him not to open in this part of Soho. He’d thought it was jealousy at the time, since the guy had tried the same and failed in less than a year. The location was perfect, and the competition almost nonexistent. That Mr. Wu and his little shop would soon would be out of business…

Except it had been four months now, and not only was Wu still standing, but that Crowley man was making a scene at least twice a week, making customers angry and uncomfortable by yelling questions at his cashier, holding up the line and asking for impossible things.

Everyone was looking, of course, and several phones were already filming.

With a smile as big as it was fake, Mr. Smith made the answer he always made in the end. He had tried everything else before, but explaining his advertising wasn’t exactly the truth never led to a smooth outcome.

“Mr. Crowley, I am very sorry to know we don’t have the special brand of rice you are looking for. And I assure you that if you find it elsewhere, it will be my pleasure to reimburse it to you, as an apology.”

Crowley seemed to ponder. The crowd held its breath. Then the demon nodded and everyone relaxed. “Seems fair, I guess… oh, before you go, can you take a look at my list? Just in case you’re missing something else on it. Don’t want to lose anymore time, you see?”

Of course none of the grocery list was in store. A very irate Mr. Smith went back to his office, slamming the door behind him. How could he be so unlucky? Someone had to have put a freaking curse on him! (Someone had).

The cashier girl looked at her awful client through wet lashes.

“Having fun, Anthony?” she murmured low enough not to be heard by anyone else.

“He’s not giving you your day off this time,” realized the demon, pouting.

“I didn’t cry enough. Plus, Debbie’s in Spain until Monday, he can’t call her. It’s ok, he always asks us to work one day more in exchange anyway.”

Crowley hissed, making everyone around turn on their heels, deciding that they didn’t need groceries after all. Crowley didn’t even look at them, too engrossed in his discussion.

“Why are you two still working for that asshole, Bea? You must quit before it all goes down like a lead balloon,” he chided.

“But the kids need new shoes, Anthony!” joked the woman, eyes sparkling.

“You only have the one cat, silly. Quit the job, I’ll help you find another one.”

“You’re way too entertaining to do that.”

Chuckling, Crowley aimed for the door. Now he just had to find the most expensive stores possible to buy everything on his list.

He would have to call Aziraphale. The angel loved shopping stories. They had a bet between the two of them about the day Mr. Smith would finally decide to close and move his “ _dreadful business_ ”, as Aziraphale called it, elsewhere.

Preferably far away from Mr. Wu’s store.


	19. Wayward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompt is Wayward, and we are back at the Treadmill^^

It was a quiet afternoon in the Treadmill. Fred was lazily checking the mini-fridge for a snack (there was some pasta leftover from last night) and Peter was arguing on the phone with a government tax accountant.

“That’s harassment, that’s what it is! No, it’s not _random_! You don’t send someone to check on a pub’s accounts three times in five months _randomly_! Is it a coincidence if the rainbow-flagless establishments in my street are _never_ checked?”

There was a long silence as the poor soul on the other end of the phone talked. A lot. Profusely. Peter seemed to calm down a little.

“Yeah, I hope you will. Okay, then, I’m counting on you. Thanks, that would be great. Feel free to visit sometimes, free beer for you.”

He hung up and caught Fred’s smirk. “What?”

“I’m _counting_ on you.? Really?”

“Hey, that was a good one, you don’t understand it because of your culture,” declared Peter with a dismissive flap of the hand.

Fred didn’t take the bait. “No, it just _wasn’t funny_. I bet he hears that one every day. No way he’ll come for that beer after that. You blew your chances.”

“I’ll have you know I have the most excellent sense of humor, Fred. And it was a woman, so I wasn’t flirting, just being nice. I don’t need any help to flirt anyway.”

Fred raised an eyebrow. “Really? Cause I’m seeing you here every single night, and always on your own, even on your day off. Maybe you need a wingman,” he teased.

His boss sent him a false glare and headed for the kitchen. “I don’t need help from a kid like you,” he answered over his shoulder.

“Are you sure, old man?” yelled Fred after him. “ _My culture_ invented Kama Sutra, you know!”

“Oh, are we interrupting?” asked a soft voice at his back. Fred whirled around.

“Aziraphale! Hey, Crowley,” he added with a wink. “Here for some wine?”

“I will take a tea today, my dear. If that is no imposition of course,” answered the angel, royally ignoring Peter’s tentative smile. The owner grimaced and signaled back at Crowley’s nod of acknowledgment.

“Coffee,” growled the demon, sprawling on a booth in the darkest corner. “Black.”

“Espresso, or long?” inquired Fred, putting water in the kettle.

“Four espresso in a mug,” moaned Crowley, his head thudding on the table.

Fred sent an inquiring glance in Aziraphale’s direction.

“Do not mind him, dear. He just woke up,” answered the angel with a smile, settling on a stool in front of Fred. “How are you faring, my dear?” he asked, smiling sweetly. “How is the love life?”

Crowley raised his head from the table, squinting at Peter, who busied himself with a cloth, wiping already pristine tables. Fred blinked, surprised. Aziraphale usually didn’t go for such blunt questions.

“Fine. I mean, way better than last time you two were here. My mother decided to get me married and is organizing meetings with “eligible bachelors”. I’m meeting one of them tonight.”

“A man?” asked the angel, surprised. “Your traditional mother is arranging a meeting with a man?”

The barman nodded, smirking. “She already had me met every single eligible Indian woman of her acquaintance. Didn’t click. I think she’s despaired.”

“So, that young man you are meeting tonight, is he Indian too?”

Fred laughed. “Course he is! She’s not _that_ despaired.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “Well I wish you good luck. You certainly deserve to be loved and cherished.”

In his corner, Crowley made a barfing noise, earning himself an angelic glare.

“I am sure,” continued the angel, “that you will meet your other half very soon. Someone brave enough to take risks for you if needed.”

This time, the demon chuckled, grinning at Peter. The man tried his own version of a withering stare, but Crowley’s smirk didn’t waver.

The door opened, and both angel and demon turned to it, the atmosphere in the room suddenly very serious.

It was, realized Fred, one of _th_ _o_ _se_ days. He’d known something was bound to happen since Aziraphale had ordered tea instead of wine. He smiled as nonthreateningly as possible at the frail figure hesitating in the entry.

“Hello,” greeted Aziraphale softly. The boy took a step forward.

It always worked, thought Fred for the tenth time. Every time, the angel only had to say a word, and the most wary, fearful and lost kids were eating from his hands.

The teen (he wasn't more than fourteen, judged Fred) sat on a stool next to the angel, seeming a little puzzled by his action. There was no resisting Aziraphale when he wanted you to trust him. It was great, but kind of scary if you thought about it. Again, Fred felt guilt built in his gut. Aziraphale was the nicest person he knew. Always ready to help anyone. He was _not_ scary. Fred shouldn't even think that way.

The angel reached out, hand outstretched, and the young boy looked at it, hypnotized, before taking it.

“What is your name, my child?” asked Aziraphale softly.

“Jamal,” answered teen, eyes down.

“Naaaah,” drawled Crowley, slithering in the stool on the other side of the angel. “You don't look like a Jamal.”

“Crowley!” chided the angel. “It is a _beautiful_ name. Do not listen to that grumpy serpent, dearest. If you think it suits you, then it is _perfect_ for you. Does it _feel_ like your name, dear girl?”

She looked up, blinking in confusion, then recoiling in fear. “I...” she started, looking around. Fred was absentmindedly wiping a glass, Peter was doing his crosswords, his feet on a table, and Crowley was snapping his fingers at the barman to capture his attention.

“Oi! Fred! Where's my fucking coffee?”

“Crowley! Don't be so crass in front of the child!”

“She's not a child! She's older than Adam! She knows the word, angel!”

“I apologise for my friend's manners, my dear.”

“No. It's... it's fine,” muttered the girl, head spinning. No one seemed to be surprised or shocked. Why wasn't anyone shocked?

“So?” pushed the red haired man in sunglasses. “Name? Do you have one? Took me a while to chose one myself. Felt like thousands of years, actually.”

“Oh, you ridiculous noodle, you,” muttered the nice fair man reproachingly, taking a sip of tea.

“Janet,” answered Janet, hunching her shoulders. It was the first time she pronounced it out loud.

The blond man beamed. “Oh, this suits you so very much! What a wonderful name! I am Aziraphale, this nice fellow here is Fred, and that disaster over there is Crowley. Do not mind the bearded man in the back, he is of no significance.”

“Oi!” protested Peter, looking up from his crosswords.

“Do you need a place to settle, Janet? Do you have somewhere to sleep? There is a room upstairs that you could use at your convenience until we figure it all out together.” explained the angel.

Crowley sighed inwardly, hiding his fond smile. Aziraphale almost never called others by their names. It used endearments, most of the time. But _of course_ he would call Janet by her name. That angel knew how to be subtle when he wasn't oblivious.

Janet was looking from one man to another, perfectly aware that she should be asking questions. Or run away.

_Figure what out? A room? I don't know the guys! Shouldn't I run away? I should run away!_

But the nice man was still smiling, and there was no place for fear. Only relief. So much relief. She didn't need to hear the words to feel them, pressing around her.

_You're not alone any more._

“I have nowhere to go,” she answered simply. Because it was the truth.

The bearded man folded his paper and deposited it on the table before getting up.

“I'll show you to your room later, kid. First you need to eat something. Do you have clothes? We'll have to go shopping tomorrow. Fred, can you heat up some of the pasta?”

“Pasta? She needs some protein, Peter! I'll make her an omelet.”

With a contented sigh, Aziraphale finished his tea. Crowley grabbed the mug Fred handed him onhswy to the kitchen like a lifeline.

“What about the Ritz tonight, angel? T's been a long time.”

“You know, dearest,” answered the angel, looking at the two men fussing over the lost girl like mother hens, “I think it is a most excellent idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you're wondering, The Treadmill didn't get that many tax audit because of homophobia.  
> It's because Aziraphale did the taxes this year, to help his friend. It was way too perfect.


	20. Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is feeling miserable. Nothing could help him feel better.  
> Or so he thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok I cheated on that prompt. I intended to use the word, but the story seems fine like this... so I guess it will have to do^^

25 of November, 1991

Crowley blinked slowly at a knock at the door, and put his half empty bottle down with a thud. He knew that Grace, waiting outside his loft. He tried and failed to get up, falling back on the floor with a groan.

He didn’t want to open that blessed door. Only to stay there, sitting on the floor with enough alcohol to keep him drunk for a week or ten.

But it was Aziraphale outside, and the angel never came to the loft. It was always the other way around. Bookshop was warm and welcoming. Loft was… not warm, and not welcoming... or something like that.

With a grunt, he focused enough to sober up, and scrambled to his feet. He cursed out loud at another polite knock.

“Okay, okay, I’m coming, _jeez_!”

He yanked the door open, glaring at his friend. “It better be an emergency, Aziraphale.”

The angel pursued his lips, looking him up and down. “Oh, good Lord,” he muttered, before shouldering him aside and entering.

Crowley resisted the urge to bare his teeth. “Well, why don’t you come in,” he snapped, his voice dripping as much sarcasm as he could muster.

“Why, thank you, dear,” answered his friend breezily, with one of his sweetest smiles.

Crowley knew this smile. It meant _I know you don’t want me here but I intend to stay anyway, so you’ll have to bear with it_.

“You know where I keep the tea,” he mumbled, throwing himself onto the couch. Aziraphale was too stubborn, and he too tired, to start an argument. Didn’t mean he had to be _hospitable_.

“You certainly look like you need one,” retorted the angel, filling the kettle.

Crowley groaned, head buried on the couch cushions. “Don’t want bloody _tea_ , go away. It’s three in the morning, you stupid angel! Not an hour to wake up honest people.”

“You were not sleeping, and I have certainly never known you to be honest,” chuckled Aziraphale.

The demon sprang to his feet, glaring daggers. “Why are you here? Can’t you just take a blessed hint and bugger off?”

Aziraphale pouted. “I had something for you. I guess I could have come at a more decent hour, but I was very excited to bring it to you right away. Well, I imagine I will have to come back. I am _buggering off_ , now,” he added before heading to the door, head held high.

Crowley was almost sure his friend was pretending to appear hurt. But _almost_ was not _certain_ , and he couldn’t take the risk. Plus, there was a mysterious gift. No demon in his right mind could resist curiosity.

“Wait. Get off your high horse and make us some bloody tea. What did you bring?”

The angel turned on his heels way too fast and the mischievous glint in his eyes was telling enough.

Crowley bit his lip to prevent a smile. _Yep, pretending. Bastard_.

“Here it is, dear boy,” announced Aziraphale, retrieving a little square box from his jacket’s pocket and presenting it as delicately as if it was the Holy Grail.

On any other day, Crowley would have made a sarcastic comment at the gesture. Like “aren’t you supposed to drop on one knee?” or “Sorry, but I’d rather we stay friends.”

Not today, though. He had no wish to joke today. With a grunt, he took the box and opened it. Then pressed his lips in a thin line and raised unamused eyes to the angel.

“It’s empty. I swear to… Anyone, Aziraphale. If it’s one of your pathetic magic tricks, I’m not in the mood.”

“Why don’t you look closer, _my dear_?” answered the angel in a tone of voice that clearly conveyed that the word “pathetic” had been a little too mean.

Dutifully chastised, the demon looked again. Squinted his eyes, using more than his corporation’s vision. Then gasped.

“Wh… wait. Is that a? Angel? S’that?”

Aziraphale wriggled happily. “It is a spore! Anogramma ascensionis!”

“Where the heck did you find it?” blurted Crowley.

The angel looked away. “This is of no importance, surely. I… I found it.”

“ _Found_?” repeated Crowley, still staring at the box. “Found _where_? I thought it was extinct!”

Aziraphale fidgeted with his waistcoat’s buttons. “Oh, I assure you it wasn’t exactly extinct. I happen to have stumbled upon the last specimens in existence. I… was taking a stroll and… stroke of luck?” he squeaked, eyes darting everywhere but at his friend’s face.

The demon closed the box and placed it on the counter with great care, biting back all the questions on the tip of his tongue. There was no way that particular gift had been obtained without some huge miracle.

“Angel...” he said, too overwhelmed to finish his sentence.

Aziraphale pretended to ignore his friend’s emotion, and looked instead at the empty bottles on the floor with a “tsk”.

“Cheap alcohol, Crowley? Really? That will certainly not do! Why don’t we forget about the tea altogether and open some nice bottle of wine, hm?”

The demon cleared his throat. “You staying for a nightcap, then?”

Aziraphale looked at him and smiled softly. “Of course, my dear. I am not going anywhere.”

Crowley fought the urge to turn into a snake and hide. The angel knew. He had to. The arrival in the middle of the night. On _this_ particular night. The absence of inquiring about his foul mood. The _gift_.

“Angel, how on Earth did you know? You never watch the news. I don’t think his death is even on the news _yet_.”

Aziraphale tilted his head and smiled sadly. “Crowley, dear. I live in Soho. And he was your favorite singer. Of course I know.”

Crowley snapped and miracled his glasses on his nose, shoving his hands in his pockets to hide their trembling.

He knew he had to say something, but was pretty sure his voice would betray _feelings_.

Thankfully, the angel seemed to know as much. “I will open a bottle. Then we will watch that television show you are constantly blabbering on about,” he added in a tone that brooked no opposition.

Crowley blinked, then scrambled to find the remote control. He’d been harassing the angel for years, no way he would miss the opportunity to finally introduce his friend to Golden Girls.

Five minutes later, the first episode was starting. There was no rerun programmed, but the television had been in Crowley’s possession long enough to know what was in its best interest.

There was good wine, good TV, and more than all good company. Crowley could still feel the deep sorrow, but it was much more manageable with his angel’s presence and warm Grace at his side.

“Angel?”

“What is it, Crowley?”

“...nothing.”

“Anytime, dear boy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, obviously the singer is Freddie Mercury, who was one of the greatest stars who ever lived.  
> Wanted to have Crowley say it, but both he and Aziraphale were perfectly aware of who Freddie was, and how talented he was. Stating the obvious didn't feel right, so I cut it... and there's no prompt^^
> 
> Anogramma ascensionis is a very rare (and cute) fern who was considered extinct in 1991. Four specimens have been discovered in 2010 and there are much more today. Probably thanks to Aziraphale's miracle. Knowing the angel, he blessed the last plants so hard they survived until being found^^


End file.
